


you're barely waking and i'm tangled up in you

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Band, a bit of angsty liam, a hint of fake-dating, and lots of Zayn's family members, sorry for the lack of harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Liam thinks long enough about it, all of it starts like this―</i>
</p><p><i>And the </i>‘it’<i> turns into an obsession, he thinks belatedly, because it’s all that’s on his mind when he’s sober enough to focus.</i></p><p>(Liam meets up with Zayn almost two years into the band's hiatus.  And he thinks it's a bad idea... until it's really not.  Eventually, Zayn fits in like he <i>always</i> did―right next to Liam's side.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're barely waking and i'm tangled up in you

**Author's Note:**

> On a rainy Monday morning drive in November, this idea struck me while listening to Adele's "When We Were Young." It was supposed to be a dark, angst-y piece but it turned into something bigger. Somehow it became domestic, refreshing, and warm. I blame that on Howie Day and Hozier. It took _months_ to complete this fic but I am grateful for it. This feels like a fic for myself (and for others, too.)
> 
> Part of this fic is inspired by [this AU](http://liamtrash.tumblr.com/post/126131061898/au-liam-payne-works-as-a-producer-on-ex-bandmate) from [ziamsie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ziamsie/pseuds/ziamsie)
> 
> This is definitely for Ashley, Ducky, and Avery―thanks for looking out for me when I couldn't look out for myself. More notes at the end!
> 
> Lyrics in the fic are from the 1975's "A Change of Heart." Titles comes from Howie Day's "Collide."

 

 

|+|

 

_‘are we awake? am I too old to be this stoned?’_

 

|+|

 

“I’ll have one more.”

“Y’ said that before the last drink, mate.”

Liam flicks a curious eyebrow up at the bartender. _Mickey_ , right? Liam doesn’t care. He puts on his best wry smile to avoid looking annoyed, huffing lowly. Gently, he nudges his empty glass towards Mickey.

With lips pressed into a thin line, Mickey nods. He fixes another drink, sliding it back to Liam.

Liam tips with another tenner. In one gulp, he downs half the drink. The sharp flavor stopped bothering him half an hour ago. Blinking, he leans further over the woodgrain bar. His shoulders hunch in that comfortably slack way, like he doesn’t care. He lowers his eyes. The music gets a little dull in his head but he still listens.

He still doesn’t know why he’s here tonight.

There’s a row of empty glasses on the bar. Four or five? Probably more like six. They’re all his. He’s sticking to amaretto tonight, even if his gut feels like whiskey. But whiskey usually puts him on the bend quicker. Plus, he’s given Paddy the night off. A few too many drinks and he won’t be able to watch over himself.

That might be the one good thing about this _‘hiatus’_ (he doesn’t know why he still calls it that―it’s been almost two bloody years now), because Paddy remains as his security detail. Perk of the job? A bit, yeah.

Chuckling, Liam finishes his drink. Its nights like this where he really misses Niall and Louis flanking his left and right. Pure comedy, those two gits.

But they had just been cheap replacements for―

“The kid’s got a good voice. He looks fantastic, too. He’s really working the crowd, that one.”

Liam’s shoulders slouch some more. He keeps his eyes low. None of the tunes he’s heard in the last hour are anything he knows. Except for the occasional Frank Ocean or Miguel cover. Everything else is new to him.

But the _voice_ ―well, Liam recognizes that. On instinct. It wraps comfortably around him like a childhood memory. Years later, it still has that effect on him.

Fuck. He really wishes he was a little more heartless. Sentimental bastard. He needs another drink.

“Heard he used to be in that one group. Y’know the one?”

Liam sighs under his breath. Twisting his empty glass between his fingers, he whispers _“One Direction”_ with Mickey.

Yeah. He remembers. Fucking brilliant they were, once upon a time.

Thankfully, Liam has kept out of the spotlight for the past eight months―Mickey doesn’t recognize him. Probably not with the extra inch of stubble along his jaw. Or his snapback tugged backwards over his thick hair. Liam’s done good about wearing baggy hoodies to hide his ink. And he’s gotten brilliant at avoiding eye contact with most people.

His mum calls him a recluse. Liam thinks he’s just being cautious. Either way, Mickey doesn’t know him. Neither do most of the club goers. It’s not as if _Liam Payne_ is a popular name amongst Google searches these days, anyway.

He’s fine with it. He waves over another drink and Mickey sighs, filling a glass.

It’s watered down this time. Liam doesn’t make a fuss. Anything to keep his mind off that voice. His focus zones in on the ice and the frivolous cherry floating at the top of his drink.

(As if Mickey hadn’t noticed he hasn’t touched all the other cherries sitting in his drink before.)

Liam just smiles down at the glass. The club is stuffy and hot so the drink is sweating already. Thick drops of condensation puddle under his fingers. Killing time is what he’s doing. He should just call a cab and be done with this. Instead, he’s sat at the bar a little longer.

Because it’s been ages since he’s heard the rasp in Zayn’s voice just before it goes falsetto. That’s not a chill running up Liam’s arms. But it’s _something_. Fuck. The impulse to just leave is getting ridiculous.

“Shit. The kid is really going for it.”

Liam wrinkles his nose. Honestly, Zayn’s never held back while performing. People just never noticed. But Liam always did. Call it awe or arse-over-tit fondness, but Liam always noticed.

He lets himself linger until the end of the song. Liam never touches the last drink. It turns amber and the ice melts. But all Liam can hear is Zayn’s voice in his head. And then―

“Sorry about that. Kinda got carried away, y’know? That tune was about someone I used t’ love, okay? A bit mushy, sorry. Hope y’ liked it. Right, right, next tune, yeah? Promise it’ll be a fucking cool one.”

Liam snorts. He fishes out a hundred quid and doesn’t bother to ask for the change. Mickey doesn’t offer either.

A rueful smile licks over Liam’s lips when he stands. He’s not drunk. Buzzing? Possibly. But it’s that good feeling where your legs aren’t jelly, yet your head is clear off, floating somewhere.

He checks his phone. It’s not quite midnight. And there’s only a few missed calls from his mum. He’ll give her a ring in the morning. Or afternoon. Depends on the hangover, right?

“You’re gonna miss the last song,” Mickey calls.

Liam shakes his head. Awful mistake. He’s dizzy before he gathers himself. Sucking in a breath, he waves Mickey off. “M’ sure it’ll be just as fantastic as the first.”

Mickey says something Liam can’t make out. After a beat, he turns away. The club isn’t exactly packed but there’s enough people between him and the door. He tips his chin down. _Covert_ is what he’s going for.

A bit like James Bond.

Liam’s almost certain he’s never been clever enough to be as cool as Daniel Craig. But he tries.

Relaxing his shoulders, Liam manages around only a few people before he’s recognized―

“Payno! Liam!”

Fuck.

He only wishes he didn’t recognize the voice when it yells just over the fading music. But it’s so rich, bloody Yorkshire sharpness to it. When he turns, his mouth lifts easily into a smile. And he’s greeted by a familiar pair of brown eyes, the same grin plastered over a welcomed face.

 _Jawaad Saeed_.

Before Liam can speak or formulate an excuse to ignore him, Jawaad pulls Liam into a strong hug. One of those back-clapping ones. The kind Liam’s used to from those Malik men. Or, he _used_ to remember that feeling.

It was a long time ago, he thinks.

But Jawaad is holding on like Liam might slip away. After a breath, Liam returns the embrace. He hooks his chin on Jawaad’s shoulder, sighing. Unconsciously, his hand finds its way into Jawaad’s thick curls, tangling in them like when Jawaad was just a sixteen year old tagalong on tour.

Damn it. He’s missed this kid.

“Bro!” Jawaad exclaims when he pulls back.

Liam smiles goofily. He cups the nape of Jawaad’s neck, nodding. Words escape him.

“Fuck. Where’ve you been? No. Man, seriously. Fucking _missed_ you.”

“Watch your mouth,” Liam teases, playfully smacking Jawaad’s cheek. “You’re still a little twat to me.”

Jawaad purses his lips. He looks amused. It warms Liam, just seeing that smirk and how much Jawaad looks like his mum now. He’s taller too, which Liam would’ve never imagined.

“I missed you, bro.”

“Missed you too, man.”

Liam’s not even lying. In his chest, his heart skips a rhythm because Jawaad feels like a warm blanket. A part of the boy Liam used to be. That sickeningly cozy part of your childhood that only hits you when you sniff a familiar scent.

Jawaad whacks his arm. Liam doesn’t flinch. But his grin stretches in size.

After a second, Jawaad’s eyebrows drop. “You headed out, man? How long have you been here?”

 _Yeah_ and _forever_ , Liam thinks. He doesn’t want to answer either question. And Jawaad is staring at him so earnestly, big eyes and a curious mouth. The way Zayn used to look when the band first got together; always worried Liam was going to quit on ‘em.

Those thoughts stopped crossing his mind after sharing a room with Zayn during X Factor.

(After that, Liam couldn’t imagine being away from that nerd―time definitely shredded that dream.)

But Liam doesn’t tell a soul about that. Well, except his mum and sisters. But they don’t yap to anyone about it. The occasional tease on Christmas is good enough for them.

Liam shrugs. It feels like a trap. As much as he’s missed Jawaad (and all of Zayn’s family, if he’s being honest) he knows the next question before it’s even across Jawaad’s lips―

“Does Zee know you’re here?”

 _No_.

“Has he seen you yet?”

 _Definitely not_.

“Shit, Payno. You’ve gotta see him. It’ll be sick! He’s gonna flip, bro.”

 _Bloody fucking no_.

Liam flashes Jawaad a sheepish smile, even though it’s not the look he’s going for. Jawaad examines him for a second.

“Zee would’ve mentioned if you were coming,” he says slowly. Biting the inside of his cheek, Jawaad adds, “But shit, none of the boys ever come to his shows in London. I get it, or whatever. But that idiot always prattles on ‘bout wanting you to show up. Reckon he finally got the nerve to ring you up?”

Liam tries not to fix his mouth into a frown.

It’s strange. Because Liam never got an invitation. Or an e-mail, a simple text. Nothing from Zayn. It was by luck Nicola mentioned it over lunch the other day. And it took Liam nearly another day to finally decide to go.

Because he needed a good drink. Not because he wanted a glimpse of Zayn. What for? Those good old days were done and dusted.

(Except Liam couldn’t calm all the shaking in his hands before he walked in tonight. Like walking the halls of your old high school.)

Fucking hell.

Those feelings were supposed to be like water and a bridge or whatever the saying is.

“So. Wanna come backstage and see him?”

Liam’s shoulders sag. He wrinkles his nose. Zayn has already left the stage, the club promoter replacing him to yap about drink specials or summat. But Liam’s chest tightens just _thinking_ about having a chat with Zayn, let alone seeing him.

Yet, his palms are sweaty with anticipation. Something warm spreads over him. It’s the buzz from the alcohol. And he’s just drunk enough that, like an idiot, he nods at Jawaad.

“Wicked!”

And like an idiot, seconds later, Liam is following Jawaad through the crowd and disappearing into a corridor backstage.

 

|+|

 

The room backstage is small. Cozy. It’s nothing like those huge venues they were used to while on the road. There’s just a vanity, a ratty orange couch with splits in the fabric. A coffee table with water bottles and ashtrays. A few chairs, a flat screen too tiny to be considered modern. And old Take That posters peeling off the walls.

Far from luxury. Liam likes it.

The sort of minimalist room that suits Zayn and his unpretentious spirit.

There’s a few lads already tucked inside. Security? Or just the kind of tagalong entourage Zayn would have. Old mates from Bradford. Minus Danny and Ant.

( _Christ_ , Liam missed _them_ too. To some degree, they humbled Zayn and Liam. Always gave them shit about being “a bunch of famous wankers with no class” and Liam wishes they would’ve stuck around before―

Right. Liam stops thinking. Thailand was long ago.)

Jawaad gets on with some of the lads. Fist-bumps and banter. Liam smirks. Jawaad was never like Zayn―he never knew what it meant to be reserved and quiet.

Well, Zayn wore those two words like his favorite jumper all year round.

Liam winces, thinking too much. Scrubbing a hand over the nape of his neck, he leans against a wall. Comfortably safe from conversation. He’ll say something daft. Because the alcohol is really hitting him. And his stomach is in awful knots.

This is a very bad idea.

“Payno,” Jawaad smiles too wide, “Still fancy Batman like hell?”

Liam snorts. Nodding, he raises his eyebrows. “Just like you’re still a curly-headed little twat who couldn’t go on a pull to save his life.”

The other lads chuckle. Liam feels pleased, especially when Jawaad shoots him a fond grin.

“I’ve got a girl now, thank you. Nearly a year into it.”

Liam’s lips curl into an honest grin. “Good on you, my boy,” he says, sighing. Affection spreads in his lungs.

(Liam has always been a bit protective of Jawaad, Zayn’s sisters too. And Zayn is the same about Ruth and Nicola. It’s this _thing_ ―secretly, Liam knows Nicola still texts Doniya and Waliyha even came to Ruth’s wedding.

There’s little he can do to loosen this bond.   Not that he’s ever tried.)

“Thanks,” Jawaad chuckles. “I’ll tell ‘er you approve.”

“Sorted,” Liam snorts.

Their smiles don’t fade. In fact, Jawaad looks honestly pleased with Liam lingering to the side. Like he’s found the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

That feels problematic. Or overwhelming. Christ, the alcohol is really fucking with his head.

But that gets a little easier to avoid too. Because a second later, Zayn comes in. He’s laughing and making noise. A lad or two from the band joins him. They’re carrying on, loud enough to drown out everything else.

Liam freezes. Well, that whole covert thing is dead and buried now, innit?

Zayn is so _vibrant_. Neon. But Liam knows it’s only because Zayn is around people he knows. He’s never this loud, or he never _used_ to be.

He remembers a quieter Zayn. Very shy and a hint of awkward when in a crowd. He never said much around strangers. But he always had a good chat with Liam. In fact, Liam could never get Zayn to shut up.

It was quite lovely, thinking back.

Talkative Zayn and a sleepy-smiley Liam tucked into his side. A less-than-dynamic duo.

Well, seven years ago, they were.

Now, watching Zayn, he wonders if he could still have that effect. Which is a terrible thought, he reminds himself (But he’d like to imagine Zayn has that same effect on him, too.)

Jawaad is waving wild arms from the sofa. Zayn doesn’t notice him. He cracks a water bottle, drains most of it. Laughing, he tips his head at one of the blokes by the door.

Easy and comfortable. Like how Zayn was while on tour. For the most part, at least.

“Yo, Zee. Eh, bro. Bhaiya,” Jawaad calls. “ _Zain_.”

Zayn looks up immediately. Jawaad’s lips curl into a grin. He slouches on the sofa, feet kicked up on the table, motioning towards Liam in the corner. Zayn goes still.

Liam swallows. Even without Zayn’s eyes on him, Liam feels like Zayn senses him. It’s daft, really. Something Louis mentioned ages ago. In a crowded room, Louis swears Zayn gravitated towards Liam like a planet and its star.

Yep. Completely daft of him to even remember that. Louis was probably high back then. On some pure-grade shit Zayn bought, too.

“Look what I found out there, bhaiya! Our mate Payno.”

There’s a pause. Liam sniffs. Zayn examines him. A second later, they’re inhaling at the same time. It feels like the room has gone quiet, even though the others carry on with useless banter. But Zayn shuts up.

And Liam winces slightly, not even sure whether to wave or squeak out a _‘hullo Zaynie’_ like he used to.

When they were young and shy.

It takes another minute before Zayn shuffles across the room, his brow furrowed. His sharp jaw goes tense. His mouth fixes into something unreadable.

Liam forgets to breathe.

Up close, Zayn has always been _something_. Photos are invaluable compared to this. Not much has changed, Liam thinks.

His dark hair is thick, pushed back with a nice length to it. It’s not blonde or silver or grey or whatever color Zayn obsessed over for the week. Just inky and damp from sweat. And his scruff is thin, riddling his jaw just enough to create a shadow. Those eyes were almost muddy brown, like they always were in bad lighting. But Liam can see the cracks of green and amber in them.

Shit.

Liam didn’t know what was wrong with his heart. So he kept studying Zayn―a full bottom lip always a tad swollen and bitten red by nervous teeth. A small, crooked smile like Zayn’s never certain around people.

And new ink up his arms. He’s seen it in pictures but never this close.

The moment Zayn gives Liam a full look, his mouth goes soft. A toothy grin―the one Liam always used to get. And those crinkles around his eyes turn them into slits.

Liam relaxes a fraction. “Hey man―”

Zayn doesn’t hesitate another breath. He yanks Liam into a hug. Liam goes still.

He reckons that’s not the appropriate reaction but its _Zayn_. And it has been nearly a year? A handful of months? Even the last time they’d spotted each other at some music event, they didn’t really chat. A wave and a nod.

So maybe Liam’s confused, okay?

But Zayn buries his face in Liam’s neck and Liam finally unwinds. He scoops his arms around Zayn’s wiry frame. Pulling him closer, Liam breathes.

Zayn still smells the same―sandalwood underneath cigarettes. A light musk. A cozy reminder.

“Hey, man.” Zayn repeats it, his nose snuffling Liam’s skin.

Liam twitches with this eerie feeling. He fancies the way Zayn’s always made him uncomfortable and happy at once. Five drinks in, he feels buzzed on another level.

Absently, he cups a hand to the back of Zayn’s head.

“Hey man.”

Zayn pulls back first. Liam composes himself (at least, he tries to look that way―it’s an epic failure). Fixing his snapback, Liam gives Zayn a once over. That stupid grin sits awkwardly on Zayn’s mouth. Liam mirrors it, only because his brain is fried on amaretto and nostalgia.

Right. _Pull it together Payne_.

“How’d you―”

“Um,” Liam stammers. Blush knocks a sting to his cheeks. Brilliant. “Nicola. Yeah. She saw it on Twitter or summat. Bullied me into it or whatever.”

“She here?”

Again, Liam stumbles. And he goes a hot red. He hasn’t thought any of this through. “Nope,” he drawls. Zayn nods, biting at his smile. “But I sorted it was about time, right? I mean, not that you wanted me here or―”

“Nah, man,” Zayn laughs. He smacks a weak punch to Liam’s shoulder. “Definitely wanted you ‘round. M’ sorry I haven’t, like. Should’ve reached out, y’know? Didn’t think any of you would―”

“Probably not.” Liam tries to laugh through it.

Zayn scrunches his face. It’s supposed to be wounded but it’s a bit adorable. Honestly, Liam thinks he might’ve really had the whole bottle back at the bar.

Rubbing his nose, Zayn sniffs. “Guess I figured―”

Liam swallows, wanting to finish the sentence for Zayn. He chokes out a laugh, rolling his eyes.

“Listen,” he says quickly. “Doesn’t matter, yeah? I mean, ‘m here for a reason.”

Zayn nods slowly. “Cause of me?”

“And the drinks,” Liam teases, swatting Zayn’s arm this time. “Cheap booze, bro. Bit stiff on the good shit here, though man. What kind of shit hole-in-the-wall is this s’pposed to be Zayn?”

At that, Zayn chuckles. And his cheeks go a faint pink. He flips Liam off.

“My manager thought it’d be good to go small for this tour. Simple. Hit the _real_ people.”

Liam makes a big fuss of waving his hands around. Giggling, he sinks back against the wall.

“Found your crowd, eh?”

“It’s better than empty stadiums,” Zayn shrugs. Ducking his head, his crooks his lips up. “Not the same when it’s just _you_ performing.”

Liam raises his eyebrows. He hasn’t exactly kept up with Zayn’s career. Not intentionally. But he knows well off that Zayn’s found a pretty massive following in varied markets. Maybe not enough to stuff the O2 like when they were twenty but it’s not half-bad, Liam reckons.

Considerably larger than this dark, rank club.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Zayn shoots him a curious look. Liam stares off somewhere else. It’s another thing he doesn’t full-on fancy talking about.

“Not yet,” Jawaad cheers, appearing out of nowhere. He slings an arm around Zayn’s neck, taller than him now. “But you’ve got the skills, Payno. When it happens, you’re gonna make the birds mental, bro.”

Liam exhales a scratchy laugh. Zayn breathes out a slightly quieter one. Jawaad beams.

“S’good that you’re, like,” Zayn swallows. He looks nervous.

Just as he was eight years ago at a McDonald’s, Liam thinks.

“Tongue-tied?” Jawaad teases. Zayn throws a sharp elbow into Jawaad’s hip. Jawaad cackles. “What _Zain_ is trying t’say is it’s fucking sick you’re here, Liam. Mental, alright? We need to celebrate this.”

Across from him, Zayn tilts his head and smirks at Liam. As if to say _‘what he said’_ wants to cross his lips. But in another way.

“Sick,” Liam repeats.

“If you’re game,” Jawaad adds. “We need to party. Hit a few sick clubs or whatever. Time to get lit, right bro?”

Liam doesn’t reply instantly. He looks around the room. A few of the blokes have lit cigarettes, a spliff too. Bottles of beer have been passed around. There’s this vibe of _party and bullshit_ Liam recognizes. Hell, he lived it for a good bit a few years back.

No worries. No drama. No sense of responsibility, even when Liam still carried that _‘sensible one’_ title like a bad nickname.

“On your go, Payno?”

Liam flinches. It’s probably too noticeable because Zayn tilts his head the other way. He’s studying Liam openly and Liam wants to hideaway in his hoodie.

He could get away with that back home. His parents have stopped pressuring him for answers. What he’s going to do? Does he want to just be normal? Why he’s not dating anyone?

Zayn sucks in a breath, smiles. Nudging Jawaad, he suggests, “Bro, how ‘bout you ring up your uni mates. They’re here, right?”

Jawaad nods adamantly.

“Gather ‘em up, yeah? I’ll make a few calls. Get a car or two and you lot can have at it. All paid for. Free bar and all.”

Jawaad leaps, eyes twisted into messy crinkles. He thumps an appreciative punch to Zayn’s shoulder. It looks painful but Zayn bites at a smile. Maybe he’s tougher now, too.

“Next time, Payno?”

Liam nods for Jawaad. He’s still tense but he hopes Jawaad waves it off. Instead, he shoots Liam a gleeful look. Liam leaves it at that.

When the dressing room is mostly cleared out, Liam still feels a bit knocked off. But in a nice way. Because Zayn still knows him―how he’ll just go along with someone else’s plan when he doesn’t want to. Unless someone stops him. Usually, it’s Zayn. He recognizes Liam’s need to just, well, chill out and clear his head.

Like right now.

There’s still a massive man sat on the sofa, probably Zayn’s bodyguard for the night. But he gives them no attention. He’s swiping through his mobile, looking disinterested.

After Zayn’s used a towel to wipe away his sweat, he flops into a chair.

Liam stays pressed to the wall.

Zayn chuckles. “Having a bit of a thought?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Get outta me head, Malik.”

Zayn shrugs casually. Popping open a new water bottle, he chugs it. “S’cool. I do it, too. All the time.”

“Yeah,” Liam whispers. He remembers. “Just wasn’t in it, y’know? Can’t really get into hopping all around London tonight, ‘s all. Another time.”

Nodding, Zayn grins. His eyes turn into slits. Liam’s heart picks up the pace. “Hey,” Zayn says in that casually shy voice he commands so fluently, “Could head back to mine? Chill out. Have a few drinks. A chat.”

“A chat,” Liam repeats, doubtful. Phone calls and random texts is all they’ve been.

A chat seems uncommon. Or unavoidable, given their history.

Fuck. He’s not in much of a mood.

“Still in Hertfordshire?”

What the bloody fuck? He doesn’t even know why it spills from his mouth. He’s _not_ going. He’ll just camp out against this wall for another few hours. Call a cab and head back to Surrey.

Zayn grins anxiously. He nods. “Pretty sad, innit?”

“Nope.” Liam laughs. It escapes him thoughtlessly. “You’re a creature of habit. You don’t like to admit that, though.”

“I’ve _changed_ ,” Zayn retorts. But a giggle bubbles out of him. “I split me time between there, Bradford, and the States. I own a place in LA, y’know?”

Liam does. He hasn’t been there. Or even thought to visit because, well―

Actually, Liam doesn’t know _that_ Zayn. The one bound to Hollywood and all of it’s friendly toxicity. A life he reckons Zayn would never really fit into.

He’s been wrong about loads of things over the years.

“C’mon you twat,” Zayn says, still laughing. “Come by mine. Just a drink or two. It’ll be wicked.”

Liam doubts it. And he doesn’t think it’s a good idea. After all, there hasn’t been much chatting between any of them. A short phone call or a perfunctory text.

Not enough of what Liam wants. Or what he _thinks_ he wants. Strangely, he’s lasted this long with brief communication between him and the boys. He’s well off. No need to break a habit.

“ _Leeyum_.”

But fuck. Liam misses the sound of Zayn’s voice. And how he stretches Liam’s name out with extra syllables and letters. For reasons that haven’t settled well in his stomach.

Zayn levels him with an expectant look. Liam wants to run.

There’s something so needy in Zayn’s eyes, though. Like he hasn’t had this in awhile―a friend who he can ramble on with. Or not even talk at all; comfortable in their quiet. All of these new faces in Zayn’s life and he hasn’t managed to replace Liam.

Well, that’s rather heavy, innit? Because Liam hasn’t done well with replacing Zayn either, he reckons.

“Just for a bit?”

Liam strains an expression that isn’t quite readable. It’s just not a good idea, not after he’s already had his share of drinks.

But like an idiot, Liam sighs, “Okay.”

A beat later, Zayn flashes him an exaggerated smile. But on the surface it’s genuine. His eyes slant and he yanks out his phone, making a few calls.

In the most terrifying way, Liam feels comfortable knowing Zayn will look out for him.

Just like Liam has always looked out for Zayn, even now.

 

|+|

 

_‘for goodness sake I wasn’t told you’d be this cold. now it’s my time to depart.’_

 

|+|

 

Liam settles onto one of Zayn’s plush sofas like its familiar. He kicks his feet onto a glass coffee table covered in ashes and novels. Sinking into the material, Liam loses track of time. And space, too. He just exists in this hideaway Zayn created years ago.

His home is like a treehouse and Liam climbs into it like second nature.

Zayn raids his shed-turned-into-a-pirate-bar barefoot. He hops back inside, gleeful smile on his lips. It’s just them in the house. Security begs the night off and, even if they’re new, they recognize Liam.

He’s not a threat.

At least, they don’t eye him that way and so Liam doesn’t make a fuss about them trusting him with Zayn.

(Not that he’d ever hurt Zayn, intentionally. Or whatever. But maybe he wears this familiarity in his smile and how he sticks to Zayn’s side the entire ride over, even stumbling up to the huge metal door just behind Zayn.)

(Maybe Liam watches Zayn like he’s new and old at once. That fuzzy teddy bear from your childhood.)

(Shit, he’s losing it.)

Zayn ignores the other sofa and the massive chair he could have to himself to plop down next to Liam. Hip to hip, the way they were while in interviews. Or on the bus. Hell, when it was just _them_ in a room.

He has a nice spread of bottles on the coffee table to choose from and Liam gladly accepts the Jack Daniels. Zayn pours a row of shots for Liam. He sticks to Becks, saluting Liam.

Liam doesn’t complain. He needs the rush of alcohol to calm him. Not that Zayn isn’t soothing but―

It’s really just _them_. In a massive house. Zayn’s house, somewhere Liam hasn’t been since forever.

But it’s all completely fine. Zayn slings an arm around Liam’s shoulders and Liam settles into his warm touch. The TV flicks on, the volume low, and they laugh at whatever scrolls across the screen.

“I’ve been thinking about selling this place,” Zayn says, randomly. “Too many memories, y’know?”

Liam nods solemnly. He definitely knows. It’s why he ditched his flat a few years back. He’s thought of moving out of Surrey too. But he just doesn’t have the heart to do it.

“But I just _can’t_. Its fuckin’ ridiculous, babe. I keep coming back.”

“S’okay.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow. “Think so?”

Liam nods a little slower this time. He’s eyeing the TV. It makes things easier. “Sometimes you need that. And you could always just move the memories out.”

Zayn laughs hysterically at that. Liam smiles, too. It sounds stupid when he loops it back through his brain. But it’s true.

He did that―boxed up all of his memories and relationship shit and baggage. Donated a few things to management for charities. Had a massive bonfire with old photos and stuffed animals.

There’s even a closet back home with a few of the lads’ things in it. Mostly Zayn’s. Because Zayn had a habit of leaving things (clothes, trainers, old snapbacks) behind.

Like _Liam_. Shit. Liam takes another gulp of Jack. It’s smooth but potent.

It lulls him just a little from the heavy thoughts.

“Move the memories out,” Zayn repeats, still with a squinty grin.

Liam flushes but nods. Zayn’s arm tightens around Liam’s shoulders. This small hint of comfort Zayn provides, like Liam is not a massive idiot. Zayn has always been good for that.

Unconsciously, Liam looks Zayn’s way. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, but he seems happy. Content with Liam here. And if Liam’s heart skips a few beats because of it, well, he doesn’t think anything of it.

(Not right away, at least.)

They chat shit for the sake of killing the silence. Zayn’s working on a mural back in LA. And he’s finally learned to drive. Liam goes on about his dog, Watson, who’s huge and could knock Zayn over. Zayn has a few dogs too, now. And a cat creeping around the house.

Zayn’s fingers keep brushing Liam’s jaw, over the stubble. Liam lets him. Every few minutes, he turns his cheek into the touch. Because it’s what the lads do―touch each other until the other one is settled and sorted.

Liam’s forgotten how often Zayn used to do it after a performance. When Liam thought he hit his notes wrong. Or said something awkward to the crowd. When he was too sleepy and too critical of himself, his voice, his weight.

Zayn would rub his chin, stroke Liam’s lips, make cheesy jokes until Liam calmed down.

Whose bed they shared that night, well, they would sort thought out silently.

This felt like that―but bigger if that was possible.

Somehow, they end up chatting about films they’ve seen. On opposite sides of the globe, they both awed at _the Martian_. And they’ve both seen all the Marvel films a dozen times. It feels light, like the laughter in Liam’s mouth. He pounds two more shots while Zayn sparks a spliff.

Liam doesn’t make a face. He’s never been fussed about Zayn’s methods of calming down. And he thinks Zayn appreciates that.

When Zayn offers a drag, Liam waves him off, sinking further into the cushions. The telly is just a buzz in the background. Two sets of feet are propped up on the coffee table now. The night stretches like it’ll never end.

“Fucking beautiful,” Zayn giggles.

Liam tips his head back, lazily lolling it to the side to grin at Zayn. Exactly. The alcohol in his blood and this achingly _au fait_ feeling is fucking beautiful.

Zayn fishes through his pockets for something. He finds it between the sofa cushions―his mobile. Giggling, he shifts closer. Liam raises a quick (as quick as one can move when buzzed out of his mind and pulling in a contact high) eyebrow at him.

Snorting, Zayn presses tight to Liam. “Need a pic, man,” he wheezes. “Like, a selfie or whatever.”

Liam groans. “Gonna post me on your Instagram?”

Zayn makes a sour face. He hums and Liam rolls his eyes.

“I’m quite sick on there, y’know.”

Liam gags. Carelessly flicking at Zayn’s knee, Liam puckers out a pout. “Don’t wanna be part of your silly, um, whatever the hell you do on there.”

Zayn scoffs but it comes out a bit too happy. As if infected by it, Liam giggles too.

“C’mon. It’s not for, um. Like, it’s for _me_ , Li. Just for me.”

“What for?”

In his peripheral, Liam sees Zayn’s mouth quirk up, if not a bit sadly.

“Just in case―”

And Liam doesn’t need him to finish. The words are turning over and over in his own head. _‘Just in case this is the last time we see each other for a while.’_

Yeah. He’s thinking the same thing.

Absently, Liam scoots into the fraction of space left between them. Zayn brandishes his phone again, smirking. He fumbles with it, trying to find the camera function. He’s gone on the weed and Liam swipes the phone away, sloppily finding the damn camera himself.

“You git.”

“Fuck off.”

Liam crinkles his eyes, scrunching his nose. “Your flash is horrible,” he mumbles.

Zayn rolls his eyes, pouting his lips like he always does for those pointless selfies. Even now, Liam feels his mouth twitch at the image looking back at them. Those crinkles starting to wrinkle around Zayn’s eyes and the fuzziness of Liam’s eyebrows.

There’s all this facial hair now and they’ve lost their baby fat around their cheeks but Liam’s heart hits a treble not at how much they still look seventeen. It’s mad. Liam squints at the first photo.

“Liam.”

Sighing, he snaps another shot. And another one. None of them look particularly well off. And Zayn keeps whining next to him.

“Gimme that.”

“One more, one more,” Liam pleads.

Zayn settles, half-turning his face. His nose presses warm and snug to Liam’s cheek. His breath tickles Liam’s upper lip. Silently, Liam sucks in a breath.

“Captain America would kick the new Batman’s arse if they went one-on-one, babe.”

Liam bursts into laughter. And his finger betrays him, snapping off the next photo. His face is bright, eyes reduced to twin half-moons and his mouth pulled up high. Zayn steals his phone back, already adding his stupid black and white filter to it.

But like a promise, he does nothing else. He doesn’t upload it to social media or do much other than stare at it for a few seconds.

Those lazy lines around his grin stir this unwanted fuzziness in Liam’s belly.

(But it’s oh so telling, something he’ll figure out months from now.)

Zayn slouches down, looking amused. He doesn’t move from Liam’s side. Liam doesn’t make a fuss. Instead of downing another gulp of Jack, he wades in the heaviness coating him. It’s nice. Soothing.

He could stay like this for a bit. Just drunk and warm.

“You still laugh the same.”

Like an idiot, Liam giggles again. It sounds funny in his head. And Zayn’s accent really drags when he’s keyed up.

“And your eyes still go all squiggly, too.”

On cue, Liam’s whole face crinkles up. How completely daft of him. But he doesn’t feel like moving much or putting up a fight when Zayn knocks off his snapback to curl his fingers into Liam’s hair.

“I bet you still kiss the same.”

Giving a small tug at Liam’s hair, Zayn turns Liam’s head. His eyes are dark and lit at the same time. It’s weird. His smiles blooms when Liam’s tongue brushes errantly over his own lips.

Liam swallows. Counts backwards and then breathes.

His mind is already reeling but none of this helps―

Liam has only ever really counted two kisses between them.

The first one was an accident. Both of them claim that incessantly. They were too playful at seventeen. Zayn was rough and Liam liked to push back. Knocking about a hotel room, it happened.

He’s never really blamed Zayn, even if in his head it was Zayn who instigated it. Because it was rather nice. Their lips brushed, brief and warm. It was a second long but it was also soft and pleasing.

And that’s how Liam felt afterwards― _soft_ and _pleased_.

There were probably a dozen kisses after that but that’s when they were all a bit closer. Trading kisses like a bunch of goofy kids. Cheek kisses and _‘good morning’_ kisses on the forehead. Louis smacking a wet kiss to Liam’s nose a few times. Harry’s famous _‘I made you tea’_ kisses in the afternoon. Niall always the dramatic one with airport kisses to the ear because he never really liked travelling without the boys.

But the last kiss Zayn gave Liam wasn’t an accident.

It was all a bit sad, if Liam really thinks about it (He _never_ thinks about it, on purpose.)

Too early somewhere in Hong Kong. Zayn promising to come back. He just needed to clear his head. Go back home.

Back to England.

It was dark and Liam was groggy. In hindsight, Liam should’ve recognized the tears staining Zayn’s cheeks or the wobble in his voice. How thick his accent had gotten. And how Zayn’s smile, no matter how massive it was, had turned somber.

“Be back soon, Li.”

“You’ll miss the show.” Liam still doesn’t know why that was the one thing on his mind. Or how upset he was with Zayn for missing another performance.

“I know.”

And then Zayn’s mouth was brushing over his, repeatedly in that playful manner Zayn was known for. But this was more than a second. Too sleepy to give it much thought, Liam absently kissed back for a heartbeat.

Like he always did when Zayn was dicking about and he was too annoyed by Zayn’s cheerfulness to fight back.

“Forgive me?”

Liam didn’t answer.

Another kiss, this time to the forehead. Zayn’s scruff tickled Liam’s skin. And he remembers giggling.

And then Zayn was gone.

Not to clear his head. Or for just a moment. Zayn didn’t duck out for a few days like he always did to crawl back into his own skin after a tour.

On Zayn’s sofa, Liam’s heart gives a little lurch when Zayn’s hot fingers skim down his jaw. Zayn’s mouth curls up, probably because he _knows_ Liam’s caught in his thoughts. Again. Habitually, Liam blinks at him and the corner of his mouth lifts lazily.

Fondly, Zayn wrinkles his nose. Liam doesn’t move.

And then, with both of their breaths out of rhythm, Zayn leans over. He kisses Liam. Of course, Liam kisses back. _Soft and pleasing_. Their nose bump, for a second, and then Liam’s sinking in.

Zayn’s kisses have never been like the ones Liam shares with the other lads. (Mostly because he doesn’t kiss Louis on the mouth and he laughs when Harry tries to and Niall is just all this _energy_ that his kisses are a bit manic and off target.) Or any kiss he’s had with a bird. Even his occasional drunken snog with a bloke hasn’t been like this―

He quite likes Zayn’s mouth. The scrape of his barely-there beard. Zayn is lazy with it. And Liam is unsure, so it all feels a bit fun. Or ridiculous, he doesn’t know.

But Liam’s mouth turns pliant for the twenty seconds (yes, he _counts_ ) the actual kiss lasts.

“Still the same.”

The thickness of Zayn’s voice is the last thing Liam registers properly about the moment. He’s drunk. And fuzzy all over, as _awful_ as that sounds. Zayn scooches away and Liam’s voice doesn’t work well enough to complain.

A hand brushes the hair off Liam’s forehead and his eyes are too heavy to stay open.

“Staying for a bit?”

Liam hums. “Could do for a kip.” His head is too fogged to come up with something clever. Or beg Zayn not to leave again.

“Glad you came, babe.”

Liam wants to mumble something brilliant. Or scold Zayn for not properly inviting him in the first place. “Me too,” he quips. He sounds so much better in his head.

Zayn laughs, though. It’s tinny when Liam feels like this. But it’s still wonderful.

What a bloody arsehole he must look like, struggling to get comfortable.

A pillow is fluffed under his head when he goes to curl up on the sofa. Zayn leaves. Liam recognizes it because he’s warm with alcohol but a bit cold all over.

He wouldn’t mind a cuddle. They used to always snuggle up in hotel rooms or after a sick party. Well, they _used_ to do loads of things.

Liam reckons sleep is massively better than thinking right now. So he does. Without Zayn.

 

|+|

 

Cottonmouth is the worst the morning after. No, it’s probably the splitting headache. On the rarest occasion, it’s waking up to someone you either snogged or shagged and can’t really acknowledge them properly because you’ve forgotten their name.

Luckily, Liam immediately knows it’s not the latter. More the former. Fuck, his feels murdered.

Absolutely scraped raw.

Turning his eyes into the crook of his elbow to hide from the morning light, Liam sighs. Bloody well done. There’s still gross Jack Daniels at the back of his throat and his clothes are tangled unnecessarily around his limbs.

Breathing in, Liam knows this scent. It’s Zayn. All over this sofa.

Because it’s Zayn’s house. And Liam bloody well remembers _how_ he got here, but he can’t quite put a finger to _why_ he stuck around.

His tongue runs over his chapped lips. And there’s Zayn again. Quality weed and Becks and this tangy-sweet flavor like Zayn’s mouth.

 _Christ_. He remembers that too. His head turns over like the tide. Groaning, he barely moves any more than that. Just snuggling down into the cushions and his face scrunching behind his elbow.

An hour later, he feels ready to shift. Or at least make heads of his stupidity. So he rolls to his back, stares at the ceiling with small eyes, still adjusting to the light before sitting up.

Dreadful idea. When his stomach calms, Liam pulls off his hoodie. He feels sour and wrung out. Perfect. Lazily, he gets off the sofa, finds his dead phone and decides to stretch out his cramped muscles.

In the distance, he can make out Zayn singing and music. Oh, and the scent of food that doesn’t make him want to get sick all over the floor.

Brilliant.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, Liam cups a hand over his eyes because everything is so bright. Zayn’s early fondness for an all-white kitchen with silver tones is just a bit too much with a hangover. Liam supposes he deserves the torture.

He finds Zayn at the chef’s island, chopping things. And something’s brewing on the hob. Something distinctly _wonderful_ in scent. Curry? Is that naan? Is Zayn bloody Malik creating some of his mum’s famous dishes?

“Wow.”

Zayn looks up then, smiling. It’s half-fond and entirely the way Zayn used to carry on when he was a bit too excited about something. All crinkled up eyes and that wrinkle on the bridge of his nose.

Agitatedly, Liam recognizes he shouldn’t feel this fond about seeing Zayn like this―

He’s shirtless, skin inked up. His hair has just enough length to create a tiny bun at the back. Ripped jeans sit low on his hips, pants popping above the waistband. And he’s wearing glasses, a neat black-framed pair.

“Can’t see?” Liam asks stupidly.

(He supposes he should start out with _‘good morning’_ or _‘how awful was I last night?’_ but his brain and mouth are not on the same planet right now.)

Zayn snorts. He gives a short shrug. “Me vision has gotten a bit whack over time. I wear ‘em to read.”

And that’s when Liam notices the cookbook on the island. Zayn turns a page. Humming, he smiles downward.

Biting over his lip, Liam feels himself smile too. “Told you to stop reading in the dark,” he teases.

Blindly, Zayn flips him off. Years ago, he did the same thing. But without this exasperated smile pulling his lips up.

“You remember that, bro?”

Rubbing circles over the nape of his neck, Liam nods. And he grins. It’s too fond but Zayn sees it so he can’t pull it back now. Wonderful. He’s a complete disaster, obviously.

Zayn coughs out a laugh, looking back down. His lips smooth softly into a smirk.

Liam ignores it. Because he remembers how easily he was broken by all of this a few years back.

Moving further into the kitchen, Liam settles on the opposite side of the island. He leans on his elbows. Watching Zayn is as easy as breathing―he should know since he did it for so long without Zayn knowing.

Laughing to himself, Liam realizes he’s only ever been covert when it comes to Zayn.

“Feeling wrecked?” Zayn blinks up over the frame of his glasses.

Liam shrugs. Then nods guiltily. His cheeks heat up so quickly.

Zayn flashes him a crooked smile. “Usually, me mum makes me this stuff when I’m a bit worse for wear.”

“She makes you hangover food?”

Giggling, Zayn shrugs nervously. “After she’s told me off a bit, yeah.” He gives Liam a patient smile. Helplessly, Liam reaches over the island to give one of Zayn’s hands a squeeze.

It feels like the right thing to do.

He doesn’t talk much while Zayn cooks. Zayn lets him sample everything. Liam steals some naan and Zayn swats him with a wooden spoon. But it all smells delicious and Liam’s stomach isn’t agreeing with him much, so it seems appropriate to answer the call of his body.

“Any good?” Zayn asks.

Liam hums around his first forkful of food. Absently, he flashes Zayn a beatific grin. His cheeks flush when Zayn sighs happily so he looks back down to his plate. Stuffing his mouth will prevent anything stupid from falling out.

Well, he _thinks_ it will.

“Not quite as good as me mum’s though,” Zayn comments.

(It’s something they both do―trade a compliment for an insult. Zayn used to tell him it kept them in check. Liam thinks it’s just because they’re both lack self-confidence.)

(They’re both right.)

“It’s wicked,” Liam spits out, still chewing. He blinks up. “Proper good.”

The stretch of Zayn’s smile this time makes his eyes even smaller. Liam doesn’t let that make him feel warm all over. Because that would be fucking daft.

And unlike him.

(Of course, his heart speeds up irregularly.)

“What are your plans?”

Zayn seems thrown by the question. Liam knows he probably shouldn’t even ask. He’s done well enough not having Zayn around, why bother now? Or wonder? It’s not like the lads are all logging into their old WhatsApp to keep tabs on each other anymore.

For goodness sakes, he has no clue if Harry is in LA or England or _Australia_. And Louis only gives him updates every two weeks. Niall is a simple bloke with a simple life so Liam doesn’t really need an app to track him down.

But they’re all sort of scattered now. And Liam’s just fine with that,

Completely, utterly, without questionable conviction _fine_.

( _Most days_.)

“Are you gonna kick about London long?” Liam follows up. Because he’s an absolute masochist.

Zayn shrugs lazily. He dawdles over his food, these soft wrinkles appearing in his forehead. Always a thinker. In his own quiet way, Zayn overanalyzes as much as Liam does. Just not as loud and defensively.

“For a few,” he comments. “See me family. Chill in Bradford for a day? Meetings.”

Liam nods slowly. He tries to look careless. It probably isn’t working.

Zayn brightens up some. “But me label really wants me back in the studio which is, like. Its home for me now, y’know―”

Yeah, Liam does. Except, he’s not often there for _work_ anymore.

“―I’m best when I’m creative. So they want me to really get goin’ with this next record. I guess that’s good?”

“It’s brilliant.” Liam shoots Zayn a genuine smile when he looks up.

Zayn grins back. “Can’t really say I know what ‘m doing this time. A lot of junk in my head.”

“You’ll sort it out.”

Maybe it’s the harsh whiteness of everything in Zayn’s kitchen but his cheeks flame a soft pink when Liam speaks. And those crinkles return around his eyes. Zayn looks away when Liam starts to notice. A bit shy, because that’s just how Zayn is.

The lad can take a compliment with all the smugness in the world, except when it comes to Liam.

(and Liam’s never really focused on that until now, which makes his brain short-circuit a bit)

“What about you?” Zayn inquires after a beat.

_Absolutely nothing._

Liam grimaces but tries to hide it. Shrugging, he replies, “A few things here and there. Studio time, too. Mucking about with my sisters. Might give the lads a ring.”

Carefully, Liam waits for Zayn to react to that. He doesn’t. His face remains stoically blank and Liam wonders if Zayn’s even affected by the mention of the lads anymore. Or, if Zayn gets happy with an interviewer asks him about Liam.

(Of course not.)

“Sounds wicked.”

Liam shrugs with one shoulder. “Could be,” he sighs. Wrinkles bore into his forehead. “But you’re pretty busy, yeah?”

Zayn tilts his head, raising his eyebrows. Liam thinks over what he’s asked. There’s nothing meant to be between the lines but if Zayn interprets it that way, well―

“I s’ppose. Didn’t plan to kick about England long. Just wrapping up this little tour. So I might be off to the States again. Soon.”

“Soon,” Liam repeats, nodding with Zayn. He hopes it doesn’t come out as broken as it sounds in his ears.

Just as easy as before, they go quiet. Liam eats and Zayn dawdles over his food. But it’s not complicated like one of those _‘hey remember what we did last night’_ moments Liam’s seen a dozen times in the movies.

It doesn’t feel like retreating. It’s just the way him and Zayn communicate.

With silence and a massive helping of overthinking.

(Liam keeps thinking about the kiss, too. The _kisses_. Plural. Several. And the way Zayn keeps biting at his lower lip across the island―it looks soft and red, the way it did before and after Liam kissed him.)

(Those were just kisses exchanged between mates, though. It happens. A good snog and a hangover. It’s not the first time.)

“Can fit you into my schedule if you’d fancy it?”

The offer comes out quiet, Liam barely hearing it. That’s because there’s this white noise between his ears. Daydreaming can do that to you, he imagines.

He looks up. Zayn’s chewing his lip. Liam resolutely looks back down and shrugs halfheartedly.

“Cool.”

Zayn snorts, dropping his fork. “I mean, if ya want.”

“If you have time.”

“Cool,” Zayn grunts. It’s nearly defensive but when Liam chances another look, Zayn seems relaxed. His mouth even twitches up into a half-smile.

That says a lot, doesn’t it?

Zayn fixes his glasses, wrinkling his nose. A few loose strands of hair fall around his face, curling down by the apple of his cheeks. Rounding the island, he drops a hand on Liam’s shoulder, squeezing.

“Need a shower and a cigarette.”

Liam swallows. The thought of asking to join Zayn (for either, really) gets shoved down. Mercifully, he’s sober enough not to just burst out with a request.

“Want me to do dishes?”

Zayn laughs. Fuck, Liam’s missed that sound, even if it’s because of one of his unintentionally funny moments.

“Gotten a bit domestic, eh?”

Liam flushes, swatting Zayn’s hip. “Not one bit. But I’ve got manners on me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and ruffles Liam’s hair. His fingers drag a bit on Liam’s scalp.

“I’ve got it, bro. Hang out a bit or call a car, whatever. I know you’ve probably got plans.”

(Of course Liam doesn’t. But he’s not admitting it.)

Zayn shuffles out of the kitchen with a wheezing laugh. It takes Liam a few minutes before he stops thinking about the noise. Or the way his scalp tingles without Zayn’s touch. It bothers him something fierce, the way he can’t just draw away from those thoughts.

He should probably be on his way. Call a car and get clear out of Zayn’s house.

And it’s then he remembers his phone is dead. So Liam steals Zayn’s (not feeling the least bit proud that Zayn hasn’t changed his password after all this time or that Liam still even remembers it) and Googles a car service. He can’t quite remember Paddy’s number so he doesn’t bother. Besides, Paddy would give him shit about going missing for this long.

Suddenly, Liam’s in a right mood and being scolded isn’t top on his list.

(But sneaking a glimpse at Zayn fresh out of the shower or a farewell snog is sat comfortably at the top of his head.)

Fuck.

His hand is shaking when he pulls up his own name in Zayn’s contacts. And promptly, Liam updates his phone number. For the fuck sake of it, okay? No other reason. It’s not like he _expects_ (he _hopes_ ) Zayn will bother calling him.

Sighing, Liam drops the phone and gathers himself. Zayn is still upstairs. He’ll understand if Liam just ducks out. There’s no need for formality or awkward bumbling chats about last night.

It was just a good time between old mates. And a snog. Or two. _Christ_ , this overthinking thing is muddling up his day. And now he’s about to skip out on Zayn like some twit doing the Walk of Shame.

Fucking hell.

Biting at his lip, Liam shoves his hands into his pockets and heads for the door. He’ll have a smoke while waiting for the car outside.

It’s the best bloody decision he’s made in months.

 

|+|

 

_‘when you were coming across as clever then you lit the wrong end of a cigarette’_

 

|+|

 

“I’ve run into Zayn.”

It just comes out. Honestly, Liam can’t stop it. He blurts it out and immediately turns shamefully pink when Niall raises a quick eyebrow at him, losing his concentration on his swing.

They’re on par four at some posh resort Niall regulars during their downtime. As usual, Niall is having his way with Liam’s arse on the green but Liam has gotten better. Even on the second hole, Niall looked fairly impressed at Liam’s technique, just before sinking a hole in one for himself.

The smug bastard shot Liam a sheepish grin before howling.

But Liam hardly meant for the words to come flying out of his mouth. In fact, he had made it a point to accept Niall’s invitation for a game just to rid his mind of Zayn. He hasn’t told a soul about seeing Zayn or crashing on his sofa (or snogging him) and he’s done fairly well not having a panic attack over it all.

Well, as best as one can do by shutting himself off from the world and avoiding eye contact with his parents whenever they were in the same room.

That’s pretty typical, innit?

Niall focuses on his ball, gently knocking it into the hole. Three strokes this time. Fuck, this hiatus (or _whatever_ it really is) has been kind to Niall’s golf game.

“What’re you on about, mate?”

Liam swallows. Absently, he digs the toe of his trainer into the neatly trimmed grass. Someone will probably give him shit about that.

But he doesn’t care.

His face is painfully pink and he wrinkles his nose when Niall levels him with a patient glare.

“I ran into Zayn―”

“Yeah, got that much, bro.” Niall tugs off his snapback, pushing hair off his forehead. It’s a deep brown now, all of the dye jobs finally receding. “Like, how? Did ya happen on him in the produce section at your Sainsbury’s or was there a sale at Harrods?”

Liam rolls his eyes. He swears years of being exposed to Louis Tomlinson has made Niall quite the cheeky bastard. Some days, it’s adorable.

Today? Not even close.

“He had a show in London.”

Niall nods. “And he rung you up to come by?”

“Kinda.” Liam shrinks because he’s terrible at lying to Niall. But Niall doesn’t call him on it.

Sucking in his bottom lip, Niall hums. “Weird.”

Exhaling, Liam nods. “The whole bit.” He fumbles with his shot, missing the hole. How appropriate.

“Did y’have a chat?”

“We hung out.”

Again, Niall hums. He’s not often quiet. Out of all of them, Harry’s become the analytical one. Niall is casual about everything while Louis is the disapproving one―unless it’s his idea, of course. But distantly, Niall is a bit more cautious than he was a tour ago.

Since Zayn left, Niall never takes any one moment for granted.

Tilting his head, Niall furrows his brow. “Have fun?”

Sheepishly, Liam shrugs. He did. At least, it’s what this steady thud in his heart tells him. But he hasn’t heard a word from Zayn since.

(Not that he, like, _expected_ to.)

“It was nice.”

“Nice,” Niall parrots. “C’mon, bro. It’s _Zayn_. And you.”

“What’s that s’pposed to mean?”

Niall shrugs with a lift to his lips. Even at his best moments, Niall is _easy_ to read. An open book, that one. His tongue is firmly pressed to his cheek, chapped lips spread into an infectious grin like he’s barely containing himself.

Liam rolls his eyes. Huffing, he lines up his next shot. And misses, again. Brilliant.

“Did he seem,” Niall pauses, looking guarded. “How is he, mate?”

Unconsciously, Liam gives another small shrug. He lowers his head, aiming his club for a softer stroke. A bit of luck (and wind) knocks the ball into the hole.

“He’s okay. Happy, I reckon. Dunno. To me―”

In the background, Niall gives an affectionate groan.

“―he’s still very much _Zayn_ , y’know? The lad is just being himself.”

“To you.”

Liam blinks away from the wind and tries not to look so fiercely accusing at Niall’s smirk. Because he knows there’s something between Niall’s words, his tone. Something he’s not outright saying.

“He just seems so,” Liam thinks over his words while Niall waits, “like, he’s _good_ , Nialler. But he’s still Zayn. It didn’t feel like anything had changed.”

“But it has, hasn’t it? Maybe not between you lot, but it’s changed. So has he.”

Liam chews at his lower lip. He’s forgotten this part―the way the other lads have to remind him they’re long past those early days in the bungalow. Time has helped them all move on, Zayn included. They’re not all bitter about it (or about Zayn) but Liam has struggled the most with change.

Which is terribly apparent right now, he thinks.

Niall drops a sympathetic hand on Liam’s shoulder. Giving it a light squeeze, Niall puckers a smile. “A good trip down memory lane?”

Liam sighs. But he nods, wrinkling his nose.

Niall nods back. “Good on you, bro. Happy for ya.”

And Liam believes him. Out of all of them, Niall is the worst at faking genuineness. The lad is just incapable of it. As amusing as he is, he’s a horrible actor.

This feels completely heartfelt.

“Been working on anything new?” Liam asks after a beat.

Niall brightens up at that. He goes into a long ramble about messing about with his guitars. And doing little acoustic shows back home. Mostly his own stuff; nothing from the band. But he sounds so enthusiastic about it all.

“Ed rung me up a week back,” Niall adds on the fifth hole. “It was after a wicked bender but he sounds up for some studio time. Wants me help with his next record.”

Liam’s mouth cocks into a crooked grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall breathes, still grinning. “Could be mental, though. Dunno yet. Just like mucking about when I get a chance. Nothing serious, y’know? I reckon I fancy the small stuff these days.”

Liam’s mouth softens when he says, “Just the pubs and coffee shops, right?”

“Exactly!”

Liam gives a bright laugh. It fits Niall―this traveling nomad with his guitar. Playing small shows. Free concerts in the park and shit. Touring university campuses across Europe. A hero to burnouts and hipsters.

In the back of his mind, Liam thinks Harry would be Niall’s biggest supporter, too.

“It’d be kind of epic, wouldn’t it?”

Instinctively, Liam nods and smiles. “Absolutely,” he adds for confirmation.

Niall nods, too. “Legendary.”

“Sick,” Liam laughs, brushing his palm over the nape of his neck.

They settle into a fit of laughter between the sixth and seventh par. It’s just a casual Sunday, two former popstars hardly noticed by anyone. It feels incredible. He’s always gotten on well with Niall but without the pressure of being in the spotlight, Liam appreciates the slits of blue Niall’s eyes turn into when he really laughs or how soft his hair looks without the coloring and product.

Or how Niall talks up this girl he’s been sort of seeing. A house he’s bought in the country, not too far from Mullingar. He listens as Niall talks up this idea about buying some rundown pub with Bressie, settling down for good.

Liam smiles, nodding along. It all sounds lovely. And no one pays them any mind when they pretend their clubs are light sabers, dicking about for a few minutes like teenagers recreating a scene from _Star Wars_.

Just two unknowns mucking around a golf course.

It’s ideally perfect that Liam finds a way to mess it all up―

“Haven’t thought about writing anything for the band?”

Niall tenses a bit. Liam does too, but only at Niall’s reaction.

Chatting about the band or another record is always easiest with Louis. He humors Liam, even schemes plans to get them all into the studio at one time. Not that Liam believes any of that would happen.

But the thought is pretty epic.

“Not really,” Niall admits quietly. “I mean, like. Don’t t’ink any of my stuff would fit us, y’know? And I’ve just―”

 _Moved on_.

Liam keeps quiet, nodding along. He doesn’t press or shout at Niall. Because it’s nearly been _two bloody years already_ , haven’t they had enough downtime? Isn’t anyone else going stir crazy like he is?

He supposes not. Going mental over stuff like this has always been his own personal downfall, anyway.

A warm hand brushing the back of his head stirs him. Liam blinks a few times at Niall. And that toothy grin Niall flashes knocks the wind out of him.

“Alright?”

“Yeah.”

Niall raises an eyebrow―Liam is caught.

“Just thinking,” he says, waving it all off. “You know how I get. All in me head, sometimes.”

Niall laughs but its cut off. His fingers scratch behind Liam’s ear. “You’ll get there, bro. It takes some of us longer than others.”

It’s the kind of speech Liam expects from Harry or even Paddy. The kind where there’s a meaning hidden between the words and Liam’s just too daft to interpret it. So he nods and slips a smile over his mouth.

Honestly, Liam doesn’t think he’ll ever get _there_.

After a quiet beat, Niall smiles softer. “So, Malik?”

Liam turns a pale red. Niall’s going to be an absolute dick about this for _weeks_ , he knows. Fuck, he should’ve kept it to himself. Idiot.

“Is he still painfully beautiful?”

Liam groans, laughing as he shoves Niall away. Niall cackles and gives a little skip to the next hole.

“He’s got nothing on you, Nialler.”

“Course not,” Niall declares, puffing out his chest. “I’m a right looker. A _beast_. A feckin’ stud, alright?”

Liam waggles his eyebrows, desperately trying not to roll his eyes. On the inside, he’s glowing at the way Niall’s shed that insecurity he wore shamefully at seventeen.

Niall steps aside to let Liam have the first crack at a ball this time. It’s a deceptive tactic disguised as a kind gesture.

Liam eyes the ball, pulls back for a swing when Niall asks, “So how long before y’ tell Tommo you mucked about with Zaynie?”

Liam trips and sends the ball soaring clear across the green into a pond.

 

|+|

 

It happens like this―

_‘busy thursday??’_

Liam blinks blearily at his phone. His body is thrumming from whiskey. He must’ve been out of his bloody mind to agree to watch an entire season of _Friends_ reruns with Paddy, agreeing to take shots each time Monica shouts “oh my god” because now he’s half off his arse on his sofa.

And Paddy’s out cold, snoring next to him.

Sighing, he squints at the phone. At the name on top of the screen: _Zaynie_.

 _Oh_.

Everything seems slow and sluggish around him. Trying to right himself, Liam types back: _‘probably nottt!’_

It only takes him four times and autocorrect to get that far. Groaning, he sinks back into the cushions. He hasn’t bothered to check the time but it’s probably well after midnight and Zayn’s always been somewhat of an insomniac. When they were younger, it was quite annoying―Zayn always climbing into Liam’s bunk at half-one to talk about comics or music.

Years later, Liam finds it amusing. But he blames that on the liquor.

A second later, Liam’s phone buzzes in his lap. Thankfully, his coordination returns enough to swipe to the message―

_‘come with me! no questions!’_

And instantly, Liam’s head fills with inquiries. Not that he’s sober enough to pull all the words together to ask (or type) anything. Lazily, Liam texts back.

_‘?????’_

A minute later: _‘leeeeeyum! :) meet me at mine. 10am… don’t be late!’_

Liam scrunches his nose. Dragging a hand down his face, he sighs into his palm. If he had any bloody sense about himself, he’d just ring Zayn up. And whine at him about being drunk or how it’s been nearly two weeks since they last saw each other or how he keeps having these _thoughts_ about snogging Zayn again.

(The latter being high on his list of things to _never think about_ again, of course.)

Instead, he makes a face at his phone.

_‘10?? :( dnt thnk u can get up that earlyyy’_

_‘fuck off :) and u’re right… 11!’_

Rolling his eyes makes Liam dizzy. But he still does it. And he mucks about on his phone to find an appropriate emoji to respond with but he fails. He feels heavy, sinking into the sofa and ready to pass out.

With half-lidded eyes, he settles on a heart emoji. And _‘ill be there Z’_ for good measure.

(Belatedly, he knows all of this is a mistake. Like following Jawaad backstage that night. Or going to Zayn’s afterwards.

He’s become a series of awful decisions made possible by alcohol.)

Yawning, Liam doesn’t bother waiting on Zayn’s response this time. He chucks his phone across the sofa. Curling around a pillow, he kicks at Paddy to silence some of his snoring.

It’s easy for him to fall asleep like this―unfortunately, it’s not as easy to dream about anything other than Zayn’s crinkly eyes or what his smile probably looks like after Liam agrees to meet him.

 

|+|

 

“And the upstairs en suite has a floating vanity, a massive tub, a glass shower, and a right gorg’ view of your garden from a floor-to-ceiling window in the corner.”

The real estate agent, Vivian (Liam remembers it because of _how_ she says it, the way she pronounces her own name with a growl at the end), prattles on as they walk the main floor of the house. She’s waving her arms about, trying to make everything seem grand. It’s like every viewing Liam’s ever done before. It’s nothing magical but Vivian is trying to sell it like gold.

Zayn yawns next to him. He’s been dragging his feet a bit and Liam gets it―

This is the _third_ house they’ve looked at today. They’ve been at it since noon (because Zayn was _late_ , of course) and the drive up from London wasn’t spectacular.

But Jawaad is hanging on every word spouted from Vivian’s mouth. He’s drooling, really. Liam gets that, too―Vivian, with her dark hair and tan skin, a pencil skirt, this flirtatious gleam to her grin.

A fit dog catcher seeking out strays.

“I thought he had a girl back home?” Liam whispers.

Zayn snorts, a smatter of blush along his cheeks. “Nadine,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Nearly a year now, I think? He keeps pretending he’s not arse over tit in love with her, though.”

Liam grins halfheartedly. “Reminds me of another Malik.”

Zayn scoffs, wrinkling his nose. “M’ not like that. I’m loyal, Li,” he insists. Liam doesn’t argue. Despite what the Sunday rags declare, Zayn is feverishly dedicated in his relationships. Well, the ones Liam _thinks_ Zayn cares about.

Liam smooths a smile over his lips. “Daft bloke. We all do it, don’t we?”

A small shrug lifts Zayn’s shoulders halfway. Liam giggles and the chat dies. Quietly, they keep following Vivian around, studying each empty room as they go.

Zayn rubs at his eyes and Liam tries not to laugh. Typical Zayn. And Liam still hasn’t inquired _why_ Zayn wants to drag him along to look for houses. If he’s even serious about ditching Hertfordshire, the same house he’s been in for years now.

(And if any of it has to do with their chat a fortnight ago, about moving on from old memories.)

“There’s a wonderful space on this level for a family, if you and the missus are interested in―”

Vivian’s voice trails off as she turns a corner. Liam snickers, knocking a shoulder to Zayn’s. Less than a beat later, Zayn shoots him this sleepy-soft smile that Liam’s always appreciated. Just the way Zayn wiggles his eyebrows turns something over in Liam’s stomach.

“How lovely,” Jawaad cheers. He’s stumbling behind Vivian, wide-eyed and ready to pounce.

“Think he’ll bag ‘er?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, yawning again. “Give him time. He’ll make an arse of himself soon.”

Liam snorts, dragging his feet with Zayn. Since the first house, they’ve hung back while Vivian yapped. Whispering softly to each other, making jokes. Liam always keeping Zayn halfway alert. Zayn making sure Liam’s not too bored.

(The way they’d do as teenagers on tour―looking out for each other, unconsciously, like a habit that won’t break.)

“It’s a nice place,” Liam comments. Looking around, he smirks. “Not your usual style.”

“I’ve changed.”

The hint of playfulness in Zayn’s voice doesn’t distract Liam’s mind from his words. Because Zayn _has_ changed. In fact, they all have, except maybe Liam.

He’s just older, a tad more jaded, fulfilled and empty at the same time.

(a bloody fucking wanker some days, he thinks, but that’s from years of waking up to Louis stealing all the cereal on tour)

“Reckon you’d like it out here?”

Zayn shrugs. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he scuffs his boots on the hardwood floor. His chin is tucked. A vulnerable hint of sun splashes off his cheek and Liam thinks he’s still a bit like the kid from McDonald’s.

It tickles Liam a bit―how Zayn can chat a lot of shit but he’s still just a nerd. A bloody geek like Liam, on the inside.

“I could survive,” Zayn teases.

“I bet.”

Down the hall, Liam hooks an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, laughing. Relaxing his shoulders, Zayn giggles too. He leans into Liam as they follow Vivian.

“Warrington is rather quiet, so I don’t know if―”

Again, Liam loses track of Vivian’s prattling. One of the rooms they pass catches his eyes.

It’s huge and open. Bare walls splashed cream. A skylight lets in loads of sunshine from above. There’s a ceiling fan ticking away, a window in the corner looking down over the swimming pool and yard. It reminds Liam of a studio (even though it probably wasn’t ever used for that) and he smiles when Zayn stops too.

“Sick,” he whispers.

Liam giggles, nodding. Pulling Zayn further in, he echoes, “Sick.”

“Could really muck this room up.”

Without looking, Liam can hear the smile in Zayn’s voice. “Reckon you could create some wicked artwork in here, y’know?”

Zayn nods. He’s practically vibrating and Liam chews on his lower lip to keep from smiling too hard.

The thing is, he _knows_ Zayn. Knows how his brain works (or how it used to work) and all the ways he needs peace. The quiet suits him. Places like Warrington, where the world doesn’t really know _Zayn Malik_ , soothe him.

As loud and annoying as Zayn can be, he loves the anonymity too. The lad _craves_ it.

Vivian peeks in, smirking. “Would you fancy a tour of the master bedroom?”

Jawaad shimmies in next to her. Wiggling his eyebrows, he hums, “I’d fancy the shit out of that, love.”

With a huff, Vivian rolls her eyes. “I bet.”

There’s this proud little grin on Jawaad’s mouth. Next to Liam, Zayn wheezes a laugh. “Told ya,” he mumbles.

Exhaling an equally soft giggle, Liam scrunches his nose and drags a hand over Zayn’s hair. “Shut it,” he whispers, nudging Zayn along.

Zayn stays tucked in Liam’s side the rest of the way. Liam notices the small looks Vivian shoots them over her shoulder. It’s weird. Like she’s trying to pick apart their actions―

Which isn’t strange to Liam. People did it often when they were a band. When Zayn wouldn’t really speak to anyone first thing in the morning, just Liam. Or how Zayn sat with Liam in interviews. It’s the way Liam would drag Zayn with him everywhere, like he just wanted Zayn to see the whole world through his eyes.

Best mates. Dreadfully inseparable. It’s hardly creepy, right?

But Liam hasn’t felt those looks in too long. He wonders if Zayn ever noticed them too.

Vivian smiles. “Can’t quite put me finger on it,” she says, showing off the kitchen. Her eyes dart to Zayn. “Y’look so familiar. Actor, right?”

Zayn swallows loudly. He shrinks a bit next to Liam. Absently, Liam feels the need to shield him and remind Vivian that Zayn is a _client_ , not a zoo animal.

“Not really.”

Jawaad steps in with his knowing smirk. “Model,” he pipes up. “Me cousin is a model. Might’ve spotted him during Fashion Week?”

Vivian’s smile curls higher. “I think so,” she chimes.

Liam bottles down a laugh. Out of habit, he drops his palm over the nape of Zayn’s neck. He gives it a squeeze. Zayn settles afterwards.

“Sorry if I’m rude,” Vivian apologizes. Her smile says otherwise. “When I got the call, my agency didn’t say much about you.”

“Not much to say,” Zayn says, shrugging.

Liam furrows his brow some. “I disagree.”

Zayn makes a noise like a laugh, a snort, something. He nudges Liam in the ribs with an elbow. “Quiet you,” he mumbles.

Vivian flicks up an eyebrow. Liam can see it in her eyes before she says anything.

“So you need enough space for you and your―”

She leaves a space for Liam or Zayn to fill in. Zayn scrunches his face. Liam narrows his eyes slightly. And in the background, Jawaad barks a laugh.

“Yeah,” he finally sighs, “Me cousin Zain and his lover.”

Zayn chokes. Liam rolls his eyes, considers flipping Jawaad off for being such a wanker. But he wants to laugh too because this is bloody ridiculous.

“Or d’you prefer _partner_? Can’t keep up with these two, these days. They’re practically married,” Jawaad goes on, lips twitching higher when Vivian gasps.

Zayn groans, half-turning his face into Liam’s shoulder. Liam sucks in a breath, tossing Jawaad two middle fingers this time.

“See Zain is a model, up-and-coming, of course,” Jawaad explains, managing not to give himself completely away. “And Li, well, he’s such a supportive bloke. It’s sickening. Y’should see these two come Valentine’s.”

Liam pinches the bridge of his nose and its Vivian hanging off all of Jawaad’s words this time.

“You’re going to hell,” he mumbles, chuckling.

For a brief second, he thinks he spots Zayn’s cheeks heating up when Jawaad starts in on an awful tale about their sex life. Well, they’re very _fake_ sex life. Or whatever.

Frankly, he’s quite done for the day. After a minute, he excuses himself for a cigarette and to clear his head.

(Because he’s definitely _not_ thinking about having a shag with Zayn. That’s absurd. And Jawaad is mental, really.

If he were smarter, Liam would’ve bailed on Zayn and this awful idea hours ago.)

(Except, there’s been something tugging at his stomach for days―this little itch to reignite his friendship with Zayn.)

Before he can light up on the patio behind the house, Zayn joins him.

Quietly, they both take their first drags. The sun beats loudly in a blue sky. There’s a little breeze that covers their soft breathing.

Liam likes it here.

It’s not quite Surrey but Liam’s not dumb―he caught on when Zayn read off the name of the city to Jawaad in the car. Warrington is a good drive from London. But it’s halfway between Bradford and Wolverhampton. Somewhat of a middle ground, Liam supposes.

And if Liam moved here too (he’s not thinking it, he swears) then it wouldn’t be too much trouble to visit his sisters. And Ruth just gave birth to his first nephew. Liam loves Nicola’s husband. He misses how beautiful Wolverhampton is in the winter.

Warrington isn’t terrible. It’s not London but nothing ever is.

“Could be worse,” Zayn says, hoarsely.

Flicking ash away, Liam nods. “You could turn that one room into a cinema.”

Zayn nods too. “There’s space for me dogs.”

“Loads of room to muck up with paints.”

“It’s quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Liam laughs, exhaling smoke. “A lad could go mad out here, y’know? Plus there’s not much to do.”

Zayn grins. It’s lazy, that right hint of exhausted. “I’d go mental without the noise,” he admits. “Think that’s why I always go back to LA―to lose me’self for a while. It works, sometimes.”

Liam’s next drag is short but sweet. He’s done well not lighting up as much, dropping the habit a few times. It’s just when he gets too in his own head he does this. Usually, he regrets it hours later.

“Gonna do it? Move to the country like a proper family-like adult?” Liam’s voice lilts and it’s teasing.

Zayn’s cheeks bunch his eyes up. “Dunno,” he shrugs. “Got time to think it out. Jetting off to Sydney for a few days. Coming home for family time and then the States again.”

Liam hums. He ignores that aching feeling in his stomach. Honestly, he doesn’t know what that’s about. And his loud heartbeat can bugger right off.

“Okay,” he says, his voice dropping out.

“Okay,” Zayn repeats.

There’s a stretch of silence Liam’s certain he should fill in. Zayn gives him a few looks, almost like he _wants_ Liam to say something. It’s a thing they started when they first met―accidental cat and mouse games where they wait for the other to speak first.

Usually, it’s Liam.

Today, they stay quiet. It’s eerie. He just can’t unclog his brain. And they’re still falling back into rhythm with each other, so he’s careful not to muddle it up with daft topics.

It takes a few minutes until Zayn speaks up. He talks about music. About his friends back in LA. It’s all these things Liam’s not a part of, which is numbing. Like when Harry calls him and talks for hours about himself. Or when he has coffee with Louis randomly.

Names and places and things Liam doesn’t recognize when he spent _years_ living and breathing these lads.

 _Tragic_ , he thinks and he’s not sure if he’s referring to the distance between them or himself.

Jawaad jerks him away from thinking. “You lads coming back or what?” he asks, peeking out the door.

Zayn sighs. He looks slightly defeated when he stares at Liam.

Liam doesn’t know how to respond. Cottonmouth and a headache are symptoms of a hangover, right? Because Liam feels wrung out.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, flicking away his cigarette.

“Yeah,” Liam repeats. Because it’s appropriate. And because he can’t stop staring at Zayn.

“Bunch of tossers, I swear,” Jawaad laughs distantly. “Get a bloody room. Viv! Can we put a bid of this one?”

Zayn scrunches his face up. It’s awfully pretty under the sun.

Liam feels sick. When did he ever think such bloody poetic things? His last relationship? Fuck.

“Gonna be around when I stop back in?” Zayn wonders.

Liam follows him inside. He keeps a mild distance between them this time. Not that he cares if he gives Vivian (or the bloody _world_ ) the wrong impression but he’s just out of it, that’s all.

Biting his lip, Liam manages a smile. “Maybe,” he teases.

Zayn snorts, thumping Liam’s shoulder. After an exhale, Zayn stumbles closer and smacks a kiss just shy of the corner of Liam’s mouth. Like he used to when he was too giddy over something.

Liam’s cheeks heat up instantly.

Over his shoulder, Jawaad teases them with kissing noises. In his mind, Liam is plotting ways to drown the prick.

“Bloody well better be, Payno. Clear out some time f’r me, okay?”

Reflexively, Liam nods. He doesn’t argue. Just casually falls into line next to Zayn while Vivian starts quoting prices and more properties available in the area.

When Zayn’s not paying attention, Liam winces. Terrible ideas and him are becoming quite the pair. He ought to lock himself away for weeks for being so daft.

(Mentally, he’s clearing his schedule―not that he’s ever got anything _important_ to do these days―just in case Zayn rings him up.

Because he quite likes spending time with old friends, that’s all.)

 

|+|

 

_‘your eyes were full of regret and then you took a picture of your salad and put it on the internet’_

 

|+|

 

When Liam thinks long enough about it, all of it starts like this―

(and the _‘it’_ turns into an obsession, he thinks belatedly, because it’s all that’s on his mind when he’s sober enough to focus)

While he’s away, Zayn sends Liam pictures of Australia. Random shit. The beach or the roads in the city. Mostly old hotels they’ve camped out in during their visits. And loads of photos from Bondi Ink―Liam doesn’t think Zayn gets new ink this time. Just a bit of nostalgia, innit?

Secretly, Liam refuses to delete a single message Zayn sends, even the dumb ones that come at half three in the morning.

He probably should. For storage space. Or because of his data plan.

No, probably because he keeps thumbing through them during his downtime (which is, like, _all of the time_ ) like each message is the start of a new story he wants Zayn to tell him all about.

Instead, Liam keeps himself busy so he _can’t_ think. Julian is in town, so they meet at a studio in London. They craft a bunch of tunes they never finish, just messing about for hours. Great food and cigarette breaks and a string of nonsense lyrics Liam will never use.

It’s good. He fancies that, even during the hiatus (it’s a _breakup_ but no one is commenting on it, he swears), he’s still kept a good relationship with their writers. And producers. Fuck, even Benny calls once a week just to chat shit.

And Liam takes a few days to fly out to France with his mum and Nicola. For them, of course. But he accompanies them on every shopping trip, lazy breakfasts under an awning, touring the city like he hasn’t been there a million times now.

Honestly, it takes the edge off of thinking about London. And Zayn. And whatever else fucks with his head.

But the message from Zayn comes on a Wednesday: _‘Im back!!!’_ and a handful of geeky emoji’s follow.

On Thursday, regrettably, Liam stands outside of Zayn’s massive metal door.

It’s a misty, drab kind of day. All grey and plinking raindrops. Perfectly inappropriate for how warm and anxious Liam feels.

(Not that he should feel any of those things. He _shouldn’t_ even be here.

He promised his dad he’d marathon old James Bond films and have beers with Paddy, plus Danielle rung him up in a panic about her upcoming wedding.)

Liam ducks his head and swallows. He’ll get to all of those things but first―

It’s not Zayn on the other end of the door when it’s tugged open. Instead, Jawaad greets him with a sleep-hazy grin and wild curls. Even exhausted, Jawaad buzzes with this energy Liam wishes he could mirror.

Still, he shoots him a similarly fond grin, welcoming the hug Jawaad draws him into.

(He’s missed those. Everyone in Zayn’s family hugs as a greeting. It’s never awkward. It feels good. Soul-warming, even. If that’s a thing, Liam supposes.)

“Got in fairly late last night,” Jawaad explains, leading Liam inside.

Liam surveys the foyer and the stairs. Out of interest, he notes Zayn’s not in sight. And there’s no sign of him in the vicinity. Which isn’t odd, even though Zayn _knew_ Liam was coming by.

“Upstairs.”

Liam swallows back an awfully embarrassing noise when Jawaad glances over his shoulder at Liam. No, he’s not _blushing_. And his hands aren’t shaking a little.

He’s perfectly calm and carefree. On the inside, though. He probably looks a right sheepish goof on the exterior.

Jawaad’s still smiling when they round the kitchen. He’s shirtless, rubbing at his chest, joggers hanging off his hips. He’s always been bulkier, taller than Zayn. Nothing he works at in the gym, which Liam envies. The kid is all natural muscle and height.

“Up for the weekend?” Liam wonders, drawing the attention off Zayn’s absence.

Jawaad hums, pulling a water from the fridge. He cracks it, downing half. “No courses on Fridays. Skipped my creative writing class, though. Don’t tell Zee.”

Liam chuckles, spotting the crook of Jawaad’s smile in his periphery. Noted. Maybe it’s a trade-off―his silence about Jawaad ditching uni and Jawaad keeping his yap shut about Liam being a bumbling, blushing twat.

Jawaad sniffs, leaning against the counter. Their silence is thick, not like his and Zayn’s. It’s different.

Liam leans over the chef’s island. His fingers tap on the cool surface.

“Is he about?”

Jawaad’s grin stretches, like he’s been anticipating this. The bastard. He’s not even coy about it.

“Upstairs,” he repeats, downing more water. “He’s in a mood. You know how he gets.”

Raising his eyebrows, Liam nods. Anyone that’s been around Zayn for more than six months knows all about it: _Zayn’s Mood_. It strikes randomly, usually ignited by something in the papers. Or a Twitter trend. Sometimes it’s just a silly interview gone south.

The others have been pretty brilliant at brushing off the things said about them. Even Niall’s skin has gotten thick over the years.

But not Zayn. It’s personal. It’s deeper rooted. And Liam understand.

Out of all of them, Liam’s always read that part about Zayn the easiest. Remarkably, he also the only one who’s ever gotten Zayn to come back to himself afterwards.

“Painting?” Liam asks after a second.

Smirking, Jawaad nods. He’s not even casual about how smug he’s being now. But Liam’s not making a fuss about it.

“Been at it for an hour.”

Liam’s lips slide down into a small frown. Sometimes it takes half the day to pull Zayn out of it. On good days, it’s just an hour.

Biting at his lip, Liam listens as Jawaad explains it all―some photo of Zayn with a girl he doesn’t know. A random bird ( _‘another model,’_ Liam hears) at the same restaurant as him. Explicit details ( _lies_ , Liam considers) about Zayn going on the pull. The girl showing up at the same hotel as him.

And Zayn looking worse for wear the next morning before his flight back home.

It’s nothing new. Neither is Zayn’s reaction.

But being artistic soothes Zayn. He finds a center, or whatever. It’s the only way to clear out his head when he’s got a lot going on―Liam remembers.

Doodling. Spray painting a brick wall. Locking himself away at home and coming back to the world with scars on his knuckles, dried paint in his hair.

“He’ll sort it out,” Jawaad offers.

Quite solemnly, Liam nods. His fingers keep tapping over the island. He tries not to be bothered by it all, even if he’s feeling fidgety and ready to climb the stairs two at a time to find Zayn. That would be a bad move.

(Bloody hell, everything he’s done in the past few weeks has been a bad move.)

Instead, he shoots Jawaad a smile. “So chillin’ and then what?”

Jawaad sighs a laugh. Shaking his head, he shrugs. “Pop back to Bradford for a few. Family time. Don’t get much of that while I’m away at university. Should be good.”

“Should be,” Liam confirms. Today, he’s wearing a tartan button-up and ripped jeans, a snapback to keep him mostly unnoticeable.

On instinct, he wants to tug off the snapback and ruffle his own hair.

Absently, Liam cups the nape of his neck. His fingers keep shifting over the island’s top. The cold feels good.

“Haven’t said it yet,” Jawaad says, slowly. He’s twisting the cap of his water bottle. It makes Liam anxious. “I’m glad you’re back ‘round. Well, more than you’ve been, bro.”

Liam hums, lips pulling up.

Jawaad laughs softly. “Yeah, it’s good. You’ve always been a sick time, Payno,” he continues. “And the squad missed you.”

This time, Liam coughs up a snicker. His teeth fasten back over his lower lip when Jawaad adds, “And Zayn missed you, too. Loads, man. Y’can tell.”

Liam’s stomach turns over but not in that acidic way. Like being on a rollercoaster. He’s fuzzy for a second, until he realizes that’s childish.

(Honestly, he’s heard that a lot lately―Zayn missing him. It can’t be true. Zayn would’ve come calling, wouldn’t he?)

“M’sure he’s had good company with me outta the picture,” Liam tries to tease.

Jawaad lowers his brow, shaking his head.

“Come off it.”

Rolling his eyes, Jawaad shrugs. “Zee’s different with you, bro.” Liam tries not to read that wrong. But there’s no real way to read something like that, is there? “He’s happier when you’re about. Trust me,” Jawaad attaches.

For the first time ever, Liam thinks Jawaad is a big fat liar.

But it’s low in his belly how much he might like the thought of Zayn being a little bit more _himself_ because Liam’s around more too.

Jawaad is fiddling about the kitchen. Liam listens to the noises. He pulls a clean mug from the dishwasher. Liam rubs at his chin, studying Jawaad shuffle around.

“Zee,” he starts, toothy grin just for Liam, “likes a good cuppa when he comes down. After he’s been at it for a bit.”

Trying not to react is impossible for Liam. He smiles without his muscles even realizing they’re twitching. It fucking blows his mind.

“Even out in LA,” Jawaad goes on. “He tells me how hard it is to find the right brand. And he hates the way Starbucks makes it. Lad can’t ever wind down ‘til he’s back here, I think.”

Liam snorts, his whole body shaking. Pushing off the island, he maneuvers around to Jawaad.

“D’ya mind if I―”

Jawaad is already smug and smiling, passing Liam the mug. He steps away.

“Be my guest.”

Liam rolls his eyes, notices the chip in the mug and starts right in on that silly tune from _Beauty and the Beast_. Absently, he reminds himself to teach his nephew about all of the classic Disney films before he’s too old to appreciate their importance.

Leaning against the steel door of the fridge, Jawaad inquires, “Do you remember how he likes it?”

Liam will never forget. “Yeah. I think I got it,” he smiles.

Jawaad sneers, kicking at Liam’s leg. Liam ignores him (and the stretch of blush that assaults his own cheeks, his neck, his chest) to start up the electric kettle. Zayn’s not particular about the brand―just the taste―so Liam bypasses the Yorkshire Tea in favor of Twinings and brews a strong cup.

From the side, Jawaad watches. There’s a tease to his smile but something else too: _affection_. It feels brotherly. How Jawaad is with Zayn.

(under his skin, Liam feels incredibly hot and sedated at once)

“Could use you about when ‘m still recovering from a bender,” Jawaad jokes. “Proper housewife, you are.”

Liam snickers, flipping Jawaad off. His blush is duller but still there. He focuses on building the flavor in Zayn’s tea.

They talk school and Liam’s dog until bare feet pad into the kitchen. Zayn looks right moody, a scowl-pout hybrid on his face.

“Hullo,” Liam says patiently with a smile.

Zayn grunts. He sidesteps Jawaad and knocks right next to Liam. Zayn is shirtless like Jawaad, wearing jeans with Topman pants peeking out. Bits of his hair sprawl from under a beanie sat lazy on his head. There’s spots of green and purple spray paint all over his hands.

This close, Zayn smells like aerosol but Liam can still sniff out the sandalwood and aftershave.

(Of course, he’s not fond of the scent or what it does to calm him down.)

“Don’t be a twat,” Liam admonishes him. Still grinning, he passes over the tea.

Zayn huffs out a noise. It could be a _‘thank you’_ or a _‘fuck off’_ but Liam’s not clear. He doesn’t bother giving Zayn shit about it either.

It’ll take a sip or two, but Zayn will lighten up. And he’ll be grateful, Liam hopes. Either way, he’s understanding. Liam knows Zayn needs it.

While he waits, Liam grabs one of Zayn’s hands. He turns it over in his palm. The mehndi ink over the back of it is still the same so Liam rubs over the splotches of paint instead.

“The Hulk again?” he hums.

Zayn smiles into his cuppa. “The Joker,” he mumbles.

Liam’s grin widens, pushing his cheeks right into his eyes. Zayn crinkles his nose and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t tug his hand away from Liam’s fingers, though.

“Better?”

Zayn swallows, nodding shyly. His own fingers creep until they can sketch over the roses tattooed across Liam’s knuckles. It’s new, to Zayn, at least. So Liam welcomes it and focuses on Zayn’s rich amber eyes staring openly.

“Got it out of your system?” Jawaad asks, clearing his throat.

Zayn seizes up some. Liam does too but for different reasons, he thinks. Quickly, he pulls his hand from Zayn’s.

“Still a bit angry,” Zayn admits.

Jawaad nods. “It’ll pass, bhaiya. It’s bullshit, man.”

“Bullshit,” Zayn grumbles into his tea. “Fucking paps―”

“―get a proper job, you dick,” Liam finishes, startling himself with his own laugh. It’s cut off, embarrassingly loud and, over his cup, Zayn smirks like his whole world just lit up.

 _Wow_. That’s pretty heavy. And Liam feels thick because surely Zayn’s taking the piss out of him. There can’t be a hint of genuineness in that smile he’s wearing so fluidly.

“Scary,” Jawaad comments, already sniggering.

Yeah. Liam can’t make out the words in his head but he agrees. This is all too―

Zayn chews on his bottom lip. It’s a habit. Liam does it too. But Zayn looks thoughtful, almost slipping back into the Mood. Liam reaches out absently. His fingers sneak under Zayn’s beanie and curl into thick hair.

When Zayn’s eyes flutter shut, Liam rubs his thumb in circles at the nape of Zayn’s neck.

It’s a tactic he learned while on tour. Zayn’s always wound up over bad press. Or missing a note onstage. And no one likes dealing with Zayn like that, not even Liam. This trick does it nearly every time―in the back of the bus where they’re quiet, watching old X-Men films, staying still until Zayn falls asleep and Liam doesn’t notice his hand is still in Zayn’s hair until the cramp in his fingers come morning.

“Good bro?”

Zayn’s lips quirk just at the corners. “Wicked.”

“Well spotted,” Jawaad chimes from the side. Unconsciously, Liam ignores him, his thumb dragging in that same slow circle into Zayn’s skin.

Slowly, Zayn’s shoulders loosen and his face softens around the edges. Liam feels proud. It’s not that smug feel he gets for outplaying Louis at footie or whooping Niall’s arse at video games. It’s this staccato in his heart―the way you feel when you’ve done something good for the world.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.

There’s a tapping at the door. Jawaad beams and Zayn goes a bit stiff under Liam’s fingers. Liam lifts a curious eyebrow when Jawaad skids out of the kitchen.

“Expecting someone?” Liam wonders.

Zayn sighs. “More like dreading it, a bit, I guess.”

Liam’s fingers keep moving but he can’t focus on the pressure. He cocks his head when Zayn’s eyes flutter open.

Chewing at his lip, Zayn exhales, looking up through his lashes. “It’s just me family,” he confesses. His voice drags in that hoarse way it gets after he’s had a good kip. “Up to take us home for a few days. My mum misses me horribly. And my aunties never get to visit with Jawaad since he’s started up uni.”

Liam blinks at him rapidly. His heart picks up behind his ribs. He wonders if Zayn even notices.

The knocking gets louder. Liam can’t hear it behind his heartbeat.

“Oi! Give us a min, yeah?” Jawaad shouts.

There’s muffled yelling back, Zayn pushing towards Liam’s fingers and laughing at the same time. Absently, Liam’s fingers find the knot high on Zayn’s spine and he traces the fantail inked there by touch-memory alone.

Liam can hear the door swing open, Jawaad grumbling, “Haven’t gotten any manners left, have you? You’d think―”

“Where is _he_?”

The question comes with a squeal. And familiar giggling. There’s already wild cackling and words shrieked in a foreign tongue that Liam can’t make out. Next to him, Zayn drops his head and exhales.

“He’s here, isn’t he? Oh, Inshallah, tell me he’s here!”

Zayn swallows loudly. “And I might’ve mentioned to me mum and aunts you’d be here.”

“Hey, nice to see you too aunties,” Jawaad grumbles. “Oi, mum, it’s just _Liam_ ―”

Another shriek of joy rings down the hall. Liam winces. Zayn goes a tad pale but he doesn’t back away from Liam. Gently, he skims his fingers up Liam’s back―another little trick of theirs.

Whenever Liam was poorly or too knotted up about going on stage, Zayn would corner him and trace the alphabet over Liam’s spine. A steady light brush of ABC’s until Liam’s breathing regulated and he could snuff up a goofy smile just for Zayn.

(It still works. When Zayn traces an _L_ into Liam’s back, his mouth jerks up.)

“You lot are embarrassing! Off with you. In the kitchen. He’s in the kitchen and―”

“Oh Mashallah! Liam!”

Before Zayn can finish the _‘P’_ he’s sketching low on Liam’s back, Liam is pulled into several hugs. Sarwat and Maryum cuddle to his sides. Tricia stands on her tiptoes to pepper his cheeks with kisses. His eyes set into crinkles and he feels a bit defenseless with laughter.

Without thinking, he swallows the three of them in a smooshing hug. Honestly, he’s missed Zayn’s family. The way they look after him like he’s always been one of their own.

Like he and Zayn are―

( _Shit_.)

Zayn’s aunts and mum fond over him for a few minutes. He feels warm everywhere they touch him. Liam can’t stop his cheeks from pushing up. His smile keeps going sideways and funny-looking whenever Tricia levels him with bright, hopeful eyes.

“He’s gotten so tall!”

“Oi, he’s the same height as last time, love. Quit being daft. But those _muscles_!”

Tricia swats them away, giggling. “Leave me son be, you feisty tyrants. Let me have a proper look at him.”

Liam flushes when she takes his hands, sizing him up. Like a child, he tucks his chin and stares at the floor rather than into her eyes. Helpless is what he is. A giggling idiot.

“You’ve eaten well, yeah? You look like you could use a few meals. How is your mum? Still lovely, yeah?”

The force of Liam’s smile wrinkles up his nose. “Yes, Mrs. Mal―”

“Oh, _shush you_ ,” Tricia scoffs. She smacks his arm for emphasis. “Tricia, love. Formalities are rubbish.”

“As are you mum,” Zayn snorts.

Tricia rolls her eyes, giving Liam one final smirk. She spins to jerk Zayn into a hug. He bends over to pull her in, tucking his chin over her shoulder.

Liam cocks his head to watch. He knows how that hug feels―it’s the same kind he gives his own mum after not seeing her for a few days. The same kind Zayn gave him backstage a few weeks back.

Exhaling, Liam loses himself in it. For a minute, he’s okay with feeling this cozy.

“Photos! Come, we must. Sasha will be so jealous,” Maryum giggles.

Sarwat nods, already pulling out her phone. “Anything to get in a picture with this well fit bloke.”

“Mum,” Jawaad groans, sighing when the phones are handed off to him.

Liam laughs and doesn’t argue. He loves this bit―the parading him around for cheeky poses and the embarrassing giggle Zayn gives from a corner of the kitchen.

When Liam finds him, Zayn is turning pink but giving him an approving nod.

Liam grins so hard his face wrinkles like a thrown blanket. He hauls Tricia closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek for another snapshot. Jawaad laughs behind the camera. Zayn rolls his eyes but he’s barely able to fight the smile already overtaking his face.

It feels incredible, if Liam’s being honest. Surrounded by Zayn’s family and this warm house and all the things he hasn’t touched in years―

He wonders how long before the cold shock sets in. That this is brief and momentary. In a week, Zayn might disappear again. Or Liam will realize he’s gotten too caught up in wistfulness to remember Zayn has a career without him now. And Liam has―well, Liam’s got a whole load of _nothing_.

When the laughter dies down, things still feel quite manic. Sat around the living room, Tricia goes on about Safaa’s grades and Waliyha meeting a boy Zayn’s father approves of.

Zayn scoffs, tucked right into Liam’s side. (Whatever, Liam didn’t ask Zayn to plop down next to him and his arm slung around Zayn’s shoulders because it’s how he always sits, innit?) He makes a face and Liam, reflexively, reaches out to smooth the lines away from Zayn’s brow.

“Aw, she’s grown up,” Liam teases.

Zayn sticks out his tongue. Then, he laughs breathlessly, ducking his head to press the noise to Liam’s shoulder.

Liam absolutely does not catalogue how fantastic that feels. Again.

“It’s just so lovely to still have you around,” Sarwat comments. She’s taken to tea and watching them for an hour now. Softly, she adds, “The family always talks about you.”

“ _Zayn_ always talks about you,” Maryum corrects. Her snicker is mocking but still sweet.

“Sisters, don’t,” Tricia pleads but it sounds half-arsed. Like she’s encouraging it.

Zayn curls up a bit, this hot stain of pink all over his cheeks. He looks ready to wriggle away so Liam curls his arm ( _protectively_ , he’ll remember) a bit tighter around Zayn’s tense shoulders.

“Can’t say I mind,” Liam smirks.

Sarwat swoons and Maryum chokes on her own tea. Jawaad rolls his eyes, shuttling out a laugh.

Zayn slouches but looks up at Liam, half-pleading. “Don’t humor them.”

Liam shrugs, his mind half-gone and he’s not fussed about the careful stare Tricia gives them. It feels vaguely familiar. Like he hasn’t seen it enough these past few days or summat.

“Wonderful,” she says, calm and eased. “Because he’s gone on about you for weeks now.”

Sarwat hums her agreement. “Missed you, this one.” She reaches out to pinch Zayn’s cheek.

He bares his teeth and turns even more into Liam’s side. Carelessly, Liam huffs out a laugh. And he’s not pressed to move just yet, not even with Zayn’s nose brushing his collarbone.

Because it feels _nice_. Like that old feeling that gets into your bones at odd times. Seventeen and McDonald’s and getting to know a lad in the dark during X Factor. Just a couple of geeky blokes who liked the same music and films and wanted the same thing for each other.

Thoughtlessly, Liam presses a kiss to Zayn’s temple. “I can’t tell. The twat has been avoiding me for months now.”

The women laugh but Jawaad levels Zayn with a distinct look. Under Liam, Zayn freezes some. His heart still keeps pace with Liam’s but he’s quiet, gone still.

Curiously, Liam shoots Zayn a look.

Zayn bites over his lip and, after a long second, he pushes out a pout and an eye-roll. Perfectly Zayn, Liam thinks. A treacherous little brat when he wants to be.

“Your number changed.” Zayn goes for playful but there’s something else.

Almost as if he’s being serious.

Liam swallows and looks away. “Excuses,” he chides, giggling. “Quite the star, he is now. Can’t be bothered with old mates, I see. Gone and gotten y’self a career.”

The room fills with more laughter and teasing. Zayn’s aunts take the piss out of him for a bit. Tricia talks about always having to calculate time zones just to call Zayn and she’s awful with maths. Even Jawaad gives him shit.

But Zayn stays just a bit quieter. In the corner of his eye, Liam can see Zayn stealing glances at him. Like he’s trying to make sure Liam is still there.

It’s all a bit odd.

Liam doesn’t comment. Or loosen his grip around Zayn’s shoulders. He loses himself in the conversations until Tricia gathers them all up, one more photo, wedging between Zayn and Liam with this motherly smirk.

(In the background, Zayn starts to swirl the ABC’s into Liam’s back until Liam’s tickled enough to laugh when Jawaad snaps the photo.)

In the drive, Zayn shuffles them off to the side while Jawaad loads up the car.

“Alright?”

Zayn blinks down at the ground. But he’s moved in so close that Liam thinks it’s okay. He’s just coming down again, finally settling into his skin.

“Glad you came by?”

“Course.” Liam adds a cheeky smile just to unravel Zayn a bit.

It works. Zayn sputters a crooked smirk. “Sick time having you ‘round,” he says.

Liam nods, barely noticing how massive his heart has gone behind his ribs. He chuckles just to breathe.

It’s still a bit grey out but the sun manages through the clouds. Zayn squints his eyes against the light.

“Call me when you get into Bradford?” Liam requests before he’s thought it through.

In huge waves, Zayn’s face turns soft and happy. He nods. “Could probably Facetime,” he offers. “Know Doniya would like that.”

Laughing, Liam agrees with his smile. He feels ready to burst with this genuine exhilaration. It keeps rumbling in his stomach. He finds himself swaying a bit but never moving too far.

After the quiet settles in, Zayn shoots him this look―grateful. He tugs off his beanie, snatching off Liam’s snapback too, trading them off.

His goofy grin reminds Liam of when they’d share clothes (it started off on purpose because Zayn was a poor packer, then it turned accidental like everything else) all of the time.

“Now,” Zayn starts, pushing the beanie back on Liam’s head, “y’look gangster.”

Liam wolfs out a laugh that echoes around them. Scrunched up eyes get the best of him.

“Text you.”

“Call me.”

“Facetime,” Zayn promises. The snapback doesn’t hide much of his thick hair, the ends curling past his ears.

(It reminds Liam a little too much of Thailand. And Hong Kong goodbyes. So he looks away, on purpose, to keep himself grounded.)

“Zain! Let’s go. Don’t want to miss supper! C’mon bhaiya,” Jawaad calls from the car. He’s a tad dramatic and that’s what startles a giggle out of Liam.

Before the noise can settle in his chest, Liam turns and Zayn surges close to kiss the corner of Liam’s mouth. Soft and quick. Almost an accident―

(Liam thinks of the first kiss. That kiss before Zayn left. The kisses between. The one a fortnight ago.)

Zayn jogs off to the car, waving, shouting “I love you Leeyum!” like a kid again. And he’s gone before Liam can slip into his own car.

On the steering wheel, his hands are shaking.

They don’t stop the whole drive back to Surrey.

 

|+|

 

Liam’s life has become routine now. Years of chaos and schedules, cities he only half-remembers, and now he’s reduced to daily bits and bobs.

He has a routine. Boring and dull but it’s all his. It’s a bit domestic, partly to keep his mind on track, but he’s gotten used to it.

After the last tour, he spent nearly a year calming down. Studio sessions and writing for other people. Even on a break (it’s still just that, innit?), he kept himself busy. Fuck, he hardly saw the inside of his own house.

It’s just that―Liam needed to stay occupied. To keep his name out there. Because _Liam James Payne from Wolverhampton_ just doesn’t ring like _Liam from One Direction_ , does it?

But now, he’s quite untroubled by boring and routine.

In fact, he doesn’t know if he could dive headfirst back into tours and interviews and being one-fourth of _anything_ , anymore.

(He’s kidding himself―he misses the lads and never sleeping in the same bed three nights in a row.)

Liam comes in from his morning run. He’s exhausted and sweaty. Watson is scampering around the house, still keyed up from the exercise and fresh air.

“Dumb dog,” Liam says fondly.

Watson barks and barrels towards the living room. Liam tugs open the fridge, grabs his water, starts up a kettle. Blindly, he finds a box of biscuits and tears into one before shuffling through the cupboards for a protein bar.

It’s the same thing, nearly every morning, like clockwork―tea, the paper, channel surfing before watching ITV Sport for an hour. Then he’ll make calls, spend the afternoon fussing over music he won’t offer anyone, and a night getting buzzed on whatever he finds first.

A routine, not that he’s completely proud of it.

When his parents are visiting, his mum cooks breakfast. He’ll order out for lunch and dinner. His dad sits in the garden, watching the ripples on the pool, playing with Watson.

At night, Liam still finds a way to plow through a bottle of whiskey.

(It takes his mind away. He needs his mind to stop turning. Liam isn’t _empty_ but he’s a bit less fulfilled too.)

This morning, Paddy’s sat at the breakfast table, flipping through the paper.

Liam grunts a greeting to him. Paddy lifts his eyebrows for a response.

Curiously, though, Paddy tilts his head and sizes Liam up.

 _Perfect_.

Liam must look a right mess, damp with sweat and wrinkled workout clothes. Plus his trainers are muddy from a romp with Watson in a neighbor’s yard. He downs his water before shooting Paddy an exasperated glare.

“You’re running again?” Paddy observes.

Liam hums, nodding. There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows when Paddy shoots him a weary look.

“What?”

“You’re running again.”

“ _So_ ,” Liam hisses, his voice still raspy from the run. He hasn’t quite been working out like he used to. Honestly, his body isn’t used to this much exertion anymore. “What’s your point?”

Paddy shrugs. Flipping the page, he replies, “Should I ring Mark Jarvis up?” He’s grinning wickedly when he looks up.

Liam flips him off. He continues his routine. He’ll feed Watson, have a saucer of toast and a cup of tea. Steal the bloody paper from Paddy.

“It’s just a run,” he mentions.

“You haven’t had a run since―”

“Oh bloody shut it,” Liam protests. He’s scowling, he can feel it. And Paddy keeps smiling.

(So he hasn’t had a proper workout regimen since his last relationship. Not long after, he traded runs for beers. And lifting weights for cigarettes, or cold pizza. He hated the thought of being healthy for someone else but―

Alright. He’s just been a bit lazy, okay?)

“Is this ‘cause of Malik?” Paddy inquires. There’s not an inch of smugness being hidden in his tone.

Liam spills his water while drinking. His skin heats from his cheeks to his chest. Scowling isn’t something he’d mastered over the years (not like Zayn; _Louis_ actually) but he gives a damn good swing at it.

Paddy chuckles, nodding.

“It’s ‘cause of Malik.”

Liam considers chucking his water bottle at Paddy’s head. “How do you even―”

Paddy lifts a finger. “I’m your security. I’m s’pposed t’know things like that, Payno. Gimme some credit.”

“Never,” Liam grunts.

Snickering, Paddy shrugs once more. “It’s okay. You know I’ve always loved that bloke. Can’t say I haven’t wished he’d show up sooner or later.”

Liam sighs. He’s made a mess of the floor with water. And there’s this warm wave in his belly―he’s starting to think he needs to see a doctor. Visit the A&E because, well, he’s never felt like this.

At least, not unwarranted, he supposes.

“Don’t reckon it’ll take you two idiots long to get into some trouble,” Paddy teases.

Liam falters. Right. After his routine, he’ll be sure to look for new security detail.

 

|+|

 

There’s a nice buzz in his system that he’s taken to on nights like this―it’s Jack and ginger ale.

Liam’s collapsed on his bed an hour ago, facedown, breathing into his pillow. Swimming in his high. For the most part, it feels good.

Everything moves slow, warmth lapping over him like waves and oceans. But his mind hasn’t seemed to slow down. He blames Andy for that (well, _mostly_ ) but that’s not it.

He’s never been any good at Drunk Scrabble. Poor vocabulary, especially when he’s been on the piss. Yet, his brain feels like it’s on overload.

On one thing, really―it’s been nearly a week since he last spoke to Zayn.

(Which isn’t anything new, right? He goes weeks without hearing Harry’s voice. And Facetime sessions with Louis have decreased over the year, haven’t they? Even Niall has his moments where he’s not constantly ringing Liam up to laugh about summat or just breathe on the other line.

His contact with Zayn, before now, was even more random.)

Still, it’s been on his mind―ringing Zayn up. For a chat. Or to hear him breathe. Whatever.

His bedroom keeps tilting. The lights are a bit too bright but half his face is hiding in a pillow so it’s not awful. His phone is just a fingertip-away and this is all Andy’s fault. He’s buzzed and drifting on poor thoughts.

Fuck. It’s terribly late in England (half three, he thinks) but that doesn’t quite stop him. With half-mast eyes, he finds Zayn’s name in his phone.

Liam rests his phone lazily on his cheek. There’s enough rings while he waits that he could just hang up. Call it a mistake, later on, when Zayn asks about it.

If Zayn even answers―

On the other end, there’s static before Zayn mumbles, “’lo?”

Liam’s mouth betrays him with a lopsided smile. “Sleep?”

Zayn’s laugh comes through bright and full. “No, babe. It’s like a bit after seven in LA, man. Y’alright?”

 _Los Angeles_. Right. Zayn’s not even bothered to let Liam know he’s jetted back to the States. Which, makes sense because Zayn doesn’t _owe_ Liam that privilege of information―

“Good.” The word gets stuck to the roof of Liam’s mouth. He’s almost certain he slurs out each letter.

Zayn pauses. “Li?”

Liam swallows, snuffling into his pillow. The phone slips down his cheek.

“Haven’t spoken to you, ‘s all. Just wanted to, like. Hadn’t had a chat.”

“Okay,” Zayn hums. There’s something awake in his voice now. “Sorry about that.”

Liam hiccups. It’s supposed to be a laugh. “Don’t be.”

There’s another bit of silence on the other end. Zayn clears his throat, whispers, “Hey, man―”

“Just wanted to have, like. Just needed a chat, f’you don’t mind,” Liam interrupts. He sighs, shifting on the bed, nose wrinkled into the pillow. “Know you can’t be bothered and all but―”

“Are you drunk, man?”

Liam hums. The room’s not spinning but he feels it all in his blood. It’s like a freefall or summat.

Honestly, he doesn’t know why he called Zayn up―except he can’t get Zayn off his mind. Weird.

There’s a clear sound on the other end before it turns to wind and the ocean. Like Zayn’s stepped outside just to chat with Liam. Probably watching the sunset.

Zayn’s poetic like that.

Always so deep in his thoughts but aware of his surroundings.

“D’you wanna chat?”

“Nope,” Liam says. Then, like an idiot, he giggles.

Rustling about on the bed, he tries to get a bit more comfortable. The telly is on, muted, and its blue glare keeps filtering into Liam’s vision. It’s not very distracting, though.

Again, there’s a pause on the other end. Liam suggests, “How ‘bout you talk. I listen.”

Quietly, Zayn breathes. And his huffing laugh catches Liam off guard―because he likes the sound of it. Might’ve missed it over the week, okay?

Fuck. He’s brilliantly bladdered.

Zayn chats about random things: California. His dogs. Random strangers he meets in LA. He goes on for a bit about his music but not in that ego-driven way Liam’s used to with other artists. It’s a hint of insecurity, conscious little words he uses like he needs Liam to approve of his ideas.

A slowness to his voice like he’s ashamed of listing off the song ideas he’s been mulling over.

It’s so familiar. Like those nights in dark tour buses, just him and Zayn. In the back. Chatting away until they were yawning about tunes, the kind of music they’d write together.

Those sneaky sessions in the studio where they dicked around. Making up tunes just for them. Nothing they’d ever show the other boys but―songs for him and Zayn.

“You still there?”

“Mmhm.”

Because Liam is. He feels alert, picking up on everything Zayn mentions. Drifting still, but he’s there.

“Cool,” Zayn says.

“Cool,” Liam repeats, giggling.

He fancies the syrupy glide of Zayn’s accent. It’s so noticeable now. The throatiness in his voice, half unsure most of the time. But it gets deep when he’s on for awhile. Like he’s just smoked a bowl.

“I dunno. All my ideas just might be shit,” Zayn laughs. It’s a cover-up. “Bunch of producers ringing up me manager. I just want t’like, get _back in_ , y’know?”

Liam hums into his pillow. Unconsciously, he’s smiling a bit too wide. He remembers what that’s like―nearly crawling out of your skin to get back to your craft.

Writing is his thing. He remembers it being Zayn’s too.

“It’s mental.”

“Yeah,” Liam grins. His voice is turning sloppy. “But it’s good.”

He’s here in Surrey but he’s right there with Zayn, too.

Listening to Zayn does that for him. Which is probably the strangest thing he’s thought since―

“I had a filthy dream about you the other night.”

Liam doesn’t know why he spits it out. It’s like his teeth and tongue can’t hold it back. And he’s just so high on the alcohol, he supposes.

He shifts about on the bed, a hand slipping under his belly, drifting. His thumb finds the groove of his hip and he’s in nothing but his pants. _Easy access_ ; which he shouldn’t be thinking.

Absently, his fingers crawl under the elastic of his pants. Over the wiry curls just above his dick.

There’s a rumbling hum on the other end.

Liam hides half his face in the pillow even though Zayn can’t see him. His cheeks heat up immediately but it’s that sharp flush of arousal.

“Okay, mate,” Zayn says. But he doesn’t sound offended. Instead, he asks, “D’you want to talk about it?”

_Yes._

“Nope,” Liam slurs. “Kinda. I dunno what I meant by it―”

“It happens,” Zayn says, cool and calm. That’s the thing about Zayn―he’s never really bothered by all of the mad things that come out of Liam’s mouth.

Liam sighs softly. Unintentionally, his hips grind into the mattress. He’s hard already.

“It was the best nut I’ve had in awhile,” he continues. “My bed was a mess after.”

Zayn snorts. Pathetically, Liam pouts. After a beat, Zayn says, “Quit pouting. I can almost hear it, mate.”

And that makes Liam’s mouth jerk into a smile. How Zayn can still read him half a world away.

“Are you hard thinking about it?”

Liam hiccups. It’s a terrible noise, nearly a moan. His hand cups himself, tracing the shape of his cock behind the cotton. The fabric is damp near the head.

It’s all quite mental. He’s up for it. But he doesn’t know how to respond to Zayn. Because they shouldn’t even be having a chat about this―

“Yeah,” he breathes. It’s the only response he can think of.

Zayn is quiet but it sounds like he’s shuffling. The ocean and the beach dies in the background. _Back inside_ , Liam reckons.

“Need to take care of that? I don’t mind, like.”

Liam buries his mouth into the pillow to moan. He tries to decline but his mind is too fuzzy. And he can’t wrap his brain around how calm Zayn is. Or how he’s not freaking out.

Carefully, Liam edges his hand back into his pants. Fingers wrap around the throbbing shaft. The tip is wet, tickling precome down Liam’s palm.

“It happens, man,” Zayn whispers. His voice has gone deeper but still soft. Casual. “What was it about? The dream?”

Liam sighs, again. His hips rotate for more friction. He’s not really pulling off, just a lazy sweep of his hand, back and forth, thumbing at the head. He doesn’t even bother pulling at the foreskin or going for his balls, like he enjoys sometimes.

In his mind, he’s talking crazy. But he hasn’t really mumbled anything.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Liam chuckles in that way you do when you’re drunk off your arse and so horny.

He swallows. He pinches the head of his cock between index finger and thumb. His precome turns thick, sticky.

Flushed, Liam starts, “It was about me sucking you off. Like. It was so fucking hot, mate. I mean―damn it.”

Zayn breathes, heavy and loaded. It makes Liam’s cock twitch under his palm.

“Fuck,” Liam moans, turning his mouth into the phone. “I could _taste_ you in my dream.” Biting at his lip, Liam waits for Zayn.

He just needs Zayn to say something but―

It’s quiet on Zayn’s end. Liam pulls the phone away from his face, checking to see if Zayn’s hung up.

Nope.

But his voice changes―there’s a wobble to it. And it goes huskier when Zayn says, “That’s funny. I reckoned I would’ve been the one giving you head.”

 _Christ_. The sting of his arousal makes the hairs on Liam’s forearms spike up. He’s aware of how awful this is. And how much he wants that―Zayn between his legs.

The slide of Zayn’s tongue down his shaft. That quirky smile Zayn would probably giving him while swallowing around the tip. The sharp angle of Zayn’s jaw when he’d try to deep-throat―just to prove himself to Liam.

Liam groans, rolling over. His prick sits fat and heavy, tenting his pants. He wriggles his toes and tries to calm himself. His hand is wrapped lazily around the base of his dick.

Pulling off would be absolutely wonderful right now but―

No. It’s _Zayn_. And he honestly loves Zayn, too much to make him a drunk sex chat.

Biting harshly over his lower lip, Liam tugs his hand out of his pants. It lays flat, twitching on his chest. Liam can sniff out the scent of his dick. The muskiness of sex in the room. He doesn’t bother rearranging himself in his pants.

He’s breathless. His heart kicks at an unhealthy speed and he thinks Zayn knows it, too.

“Subject change,” Liam mumbles.

Sweetly, Zayn laughs on the other end. Almost on cue, he says, “I’ve been thinking about learning to swim. Like, finally. Wouldn’t be bad, y’know?”

Without thinking, Liam’s mouth lifts into a smile.

“Could teach you.”

“You’d hate it,” Zayn teases. His voice is lazy, now, like he’s laid across his own bed.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Remember when you tried to teach me to play football,” Zayn giggles.

Liam does. And he’s slipping into his own fit of laughter considering it. Just that quickly, his aching dick is forgotten.

Zayn does that for him.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Liam repeats.

Zayn hums his approval. “It’d make sense, you know? Can’t imagine spending half me time on the west coast and not worrying about drowning in the ocean. That’s insanity.”

“You’d be an arse for it.” Liam snuggles into his duvet, sighing. Slowly, the Jack starts to wear into sleepiness.

“It’d only be punctuated by my inability to deal with your poor teaching skills.”

Liam scoffs. And laughs like he’s overwhelmed.

(he flushes too, unable to keep that part at bay―how Zayn picks him apart with banter and gentle ribbing)

Liam yawns and Zayn does the same from the other end. But they don’t hang up. Zayn lets Liam slur his way through a story about surfing, or _trying_ to. His family’s holiday to Australia late last year. And Zayn asks a dozen questions, slowly just so Liam’s brain can keep up.

They fall asleep whispering to each other, like they did when Zayn was away from the band in the beginning.

In the morning, Liam’s phone is dead. But when it charges, there’s a series of photos from Zayn.

Each picture is of the beach and the ocean. And Zayn smiling in just one―holding up a “FREE SWIMMING LESSONS” sign. Crinkly-eyed, his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth.

Stupidly, Liam sets the last photo of Zayn as his lockscreen.

(He’ll never tell the lads or Zayn about it, though.)

 

|+|

 

It’s a decidedly warm Friday when he meets Niall for beers this time. They’re outside of the city, at some hole-in-the-wall pub Niall’s picked out. It’s not nearly as crowded as Liam expects, so they go unnoticed.

Mostly, because Liam finds them a table in a dark corner and Niall’s shock-blonde hair has finally faded to a sick brown.

“Suits you,” Liam says, smiling. For emphasis, he ruffles his fingers into Niall’s hair.

Niall squawks but doesn’t fully pull away. Liam appreciates that.

They chase sliders with Kilkenny (because it’s on tap and it’s Niall’s choice stout these days) while Niall fills him in on life. Liam can’t help his smile every time Niall laughs loud and bright. Or how _easy_ this always feels―having a beer with Niall.

It never feels weighty. And Niall doesn’t ever make him feel obligated to talk about the things on his mind. It’s simple. Like those nights on a quiet tour bus, just the two of them ribbing each other during a play of Mario Kart.

“Ed has some sick tunes,” Niall chimes in.

Liam nods. He takes a healthy gulp of beer, catching a mild buzz. “Helping with that still?”

“A bit,” Niall shrugs. He looks nonchalant but a bit twitchy. “Still just kicking about on the acoustic thing. Caught up with Josh the other week. Remember Devine?”

Liam shoots him an exasperated smirk. Niall mirrors it.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. Palming the nape of his neck, Niall looks up through fair blonde lashes. “It feels like ages since we, like. Y’know?”

Liam sniffs. He _knows_. And it has been ages. All of this was supposed to be over by now, he remembers.

Instead of commenting, he reaches out to steal Niall’s last burger. Munching through it, Liam asks, “So you’ve been on with Haz? Saw it on Twitter or summat.”

Instantly, Niall beams and the blush blemishing his cheeks is so obvious―Niall’s always been a bit starry-eyed over Harry Styles.

(For a second, Liam wonders if the same was so apparent between him and Zayn.)

(Probably not.)

(Fuck, he _hopes_ not.)

Halfway through a basket of chips, Louis joins them. He’s rumpled and shaggy, the way he started to be late into their last tour. But he looks rested, keyed up on whatever he’s been into lately.

(Label management, Liam recalls. And footie, too. He’s always part-business, part-recreation. It suits him.)

Louis greets them by tugging annoyingly on Niall’s ear and pulling Liam into a half-hug. When he pulls back, he grins but he looks just as twitchy as Niall.

(As if they both have something to say but don’t―which pisses Liam off, actually.)

“You tell that arse Styles to return my texts,” Louis threatens Niall, smirking.

Niall flips him off. Liam sighs and starts to fall even deeper in the fold of this―just him and the lads.

“How’s Freddie?”

“Brilliant,” Louis pipes up. He nicks Niall’s beer. No one complains. “And quite the menace. Can’t keep still, that one.”

“Wonder who he gets that from,” Niall teases.

Louis makes a face, shrugging. Liam snorts, leaning over the table when Louis offers up his phone for a camera roll of photos and videos.

“Aw, bless,” Niall hums.

“Cheers,” Louis says. He finishes Niall’s beer. “One day, y’two will have your own and will need loads of advice from me.”

Liam scrunches his nose, swallowing a laugh. He salutes Louis with his own beer. Louis orders up the next round (accompanied by tequila shots because, well, it’s _Louis_ ) and they trade stories about their droll lives until it feels normal again.

“Still thinking about going to Brisbane for a holiday next month?” Louis asks Niall.

Niall makes an awful face after downing his shot. Choking, he replies, “Just might. Brez said he’d come ‘long. Imagine that’d be a wicked time, yeah?”

Louis shrugs, pushing fringe off his face. It’s longer, cutting near his jaw, which is muddled with an unkempt beard.

“Could be a crackin’ time,” he offers.

Niall nods, excitedly. He pounds his beer, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Gonna spend some time in LA soon?” Liam wonders.

Louis looks thoughtful. He leans back, raising his eyebrows. “Considering,” he replies, like it’s enough. “Gonna join?”

“Considering,” Liam repeats. Lazily, he shrugs, draining his beer.

“Sick.”

“M’ not spending every night in clubs with you, Tommo.”

“Wouldn’t think it,” Louis smirks, looking every bit the devil.

Liam snorts, rolls his eyes. He orders up the next round while Louis chats about his siblings, his newly signed artists, going on a massive bender in Manchester last month. Niall hangs on his words but Liam feels a bit out of it.

(It’s mostly the buzz of his phone in his pocket. He keeps checking it under the table, when neither of them are looking at him.

And it’s Zayn every time.

A photo of his artwork, splattered over all the walls. And few senseless emojis.)

“So how is he?”

Liam blinks up. Louis is wearing a careful expression, eyes a bit steely. Out of all of them, Louis has hardly ever been able to hold his tongue. He’s blunt and honest. Which, admittedly, Liam prefers.

Except when it’s directed at him.

“Who?”

Niall sucks in a breath and Louis levels Liam with a glare. He shrugs it off. He’s done well at being cross with Louis over the years. Early on, they both learned what buttons to push.

“Malik,” Louis spits out. “Heard you’ve been on and about with him. That right?”

Liam sniffs. He yanks out his phone when it vibrates, ignoring Louis for a second.

_‘gettin loads done in the studio!! buzzin! Think my art is ok?’_

Absently, a smile tickles at Liam’s lips. But Louis’ exasperated groan distracts him. Liam swipes out a quick reply: _‘sickkk!! back in bradforddd? hang soon???’_

“Payno,” Louis draws out.

“Leave ‘im be, Lou, its just―”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Liam says patiently. He cocks his head to look at Louis. “He’s been around. Chat a bit. Haven’t really,” he pauses, turning the words over in his head. “Dunno. It’s good having him back.”

Louis nods. There’s a twitch to his mouth that Liam recognizes.

“So,” Louis starts, leaning on his elbows over the table. “ _How_ is he?”

Relief isn’t quite the word pulsing in Liam’s brain. But Louis seems earnest. Concerned, Liam supposes. Like all of this distance has effected all of them in a way that feels familiar―

Five blokes clinging to each other in this great, big world. Hanging on for dear life.

“He’s fair,” Liam replies. His mouth stretches into a smile. “Seems well. He’s still Zayn, y’know?”

Quietly, Louis exhales and nods. And he smiles, too.

“Still Zayn.”

On the table, Liam’s phone rattles. It lights up and Liam refrains from an expression when he reads the message―

_‘no still in LA… studiotime!’_

Across from him, Niall smiles like he can read Liam better than anyone (better than Zayn―fuck, _honestly_ ). He turns to Louis and goes on about some bird he met. Louis tunes in immediately, giving Niall shit.

Half-turning, Liam palms his phone and mulls over a response.

Or nothing at all.

(It’s not that he’s bothered by it―not seeing Zayn. He’s got things to focus on, too. And he’s spending more time with his family, his nephew, making music that no one else ever hears. Plus, having Zayn around is still a lot to process―

Getting off twice a day to the memory of Zayn’s sleepy voice over the phone while they chatted about blowjobs isn’t helping.

But the thing is, he’s gotten attached to seeing Zayn when he can. When he needs to stop thinking. Just to fall into something he thought he’d lost back in Thailand.

Fuck. Liam’s not quite gotten a handle on how to slow down his thoughts. It’s never been like this, not with anyone he genuinely felt something for.

And that’s another load of thoughts he’s not ready for.)

Zayn’s next message comes quickly: _‘do u miss me bro ?! :)’_

Biting at his lip, Liam stares at the screen until it fades to black. Then, Louis swats his arm and Liam barely feels it.

“Hey, just ‘cause I’ve got me own shitty relationship with Malik doesn’t mean I’m not happy for you,” Louis comments.

Instinctively, Liam’s brow crumples. His phone feels hot in his hand. And he still hasn’t responded to Zayn.

“I’ve always thought you two were bloody ace around each other,” Louis points out. “And annoying.”

“Very annoying,” Niall adds.

Louis snorts. Liam flips them both off while the waitress drops off the beers, looking anxious. Liam reckons she’s found them out, ready to ask for a photo. Thankfully, she just squeaks, blushing furiously when Louis winks at her and scrambles off.

They all know she’ll be back and all of her Twitter followers will be crowding outside the pub soon.

“Get in, mate,” Louis sighs, smacking the back of Liam’s head. “Maybe you can fix all of our shit, Payno?”

Liam doubts it. But he smiles kindly because, out of all of them, he hopes he’d be the one to bring it all back together.

One day. Well, it’s what he wants to believe.

Looking down, Liam unlocks his phone. The message sits untouched. In the background, Louis takes the piss out of him about always clinging to Zayn’s side. And Niall mentions Zayn always waking up in the morning _only for Liam_ ―

He sighs. They’re both twats. Thumbing over his phone, his message feels bitter―

_‘have fun.’_

Before he can get caught up in adding something else, Liam turns off his phone. And pockets it. He pays for the next round―four shots of whiskey.

(the extra just for him so he’s too pissed to wonder if Zayn ever replies)

 

|+|

 

_‘you’re mad thinking you could ever save me. not looking like that.’_

 

|+|

 

By Sunday night, Liam swears it’s all in his head.

He’s spent the weekend being lazy with Watson. Shopping with Paddy. His parents are off having a month-long holiday across Europe.

(it’s an anniversary gift from him, Ruth, and Nicola―but Liam thinks it’s mainly to get them out of Liam’s hair about doing _nothing_ with his time when they know he’s unhappy being unoccupied)

It’s been nice, just him. The world off his shoulders for a bit.

(Even though Niall’s called twice, just to chat. To make sure Liam’s okay. Doesn’t even bring up their chat at the pub, the bloody beautiful lad.

And Louis has texted. Harry messaged him over an app. They’re all slowly getting back into the fold, even if Liam’s knows it won’t be like when they toured or anything.)

But Zayn sticks to his mind. How Zayn hasn’t reached out to him. Gone silent, again.

Liam should be used to that, shouldn’t he?

It’s a shame, really, because he’s _not_ anymore. But he’s a bit stubborn. He won’t crack first. Keeping himself busy doing absolutely nothing stops him from ringing Zayn up. Or texting. Or even pretending that he and Zayn were on the way to something―

Well, _naming it_ feels heavy. To be honest, he’s bricking it at the idea of Zayn being anything other than an old friend.

Like when you get on with your high school mate again but it goes nowhere.

(Desperately, Liam’s heart wants it to go somewhere and everywhere―damn it.)

He supposes that makes all of this appropriately weird when, at half past ten, Zayn’s at his doorstep.

Zayn looks a bit knackered; happy, too, if he’s being honest. He’s wearing that lazy smile of his, glasses on his face, hair hidden under a beanie, a wrinkled Bob Marley shirt. His skinnies are ripped at the knees and Liam takes in the crinkles just around Zayn’s eyes when he smiles.

(what he doesn’t register is how loud his heart gets behind his chest, knocking noisily every few beats)

“’lo,” Zayn smirks.

Liam clears his throat. Shock doesn’t wear off immediately, but he tries to disguise it with a little wave. A curious smile.

“It’s late,” he comments.

“Should I not be here?”

Liam chokes. Shaking his head, he pulls away from the door, sweeping his hand like he’s ushering Zayn inside.

Zayn laughs, his voice dragging when he says, “Didn’t mean to drop in on you. Should’ve called, yeah?”

 _Nope_ , Liam thinks. Again, he clears his throat, following Zayn inside. “What for? Y’never did before―”

“I didn’t, did I?” Zayn giggles. He toes off his trainers in the foyer, kicking them into a corner.

Liam doesn’t sigh or complain. Actually, he thinks Zayn’s trainers fit, even if all of Liam’s boots and brogues are carefully lined up in a closet upstairs. A proper place for everything, like his mum taught him.

(But Zayn has always been a bit messy, a perfect counter to Liam in everything.)

Zayn turns when they enter the living room. Flopping on one of the sofas, he stretches out. He looks tired. But his hands stretch out, reaching for Liam, his pouty bottom lip pleading.

Liam rolls his eyes, sighing.

“Only in for two days,” Zayn mentions. “Got out of recording for a bit.”

Liam freezes above him. He gives Zayn a look, considering.

Zayn says, “You didn’t seem y’self, man. So I ditched LA and caught a very long flight out here. Couldn’t let you―dunno, you seemed off.”

The heat that attacks Liam’s face makes him uncomfortable. Because Zayn’s figured him out, hasn’t he? Always has. From just a text. Zayn’s in his head and leaking into his heart, clued up like Sherlock or summat on how Liam’s acting.

(picking apart Liam’s distance just from a text―the wanker, always so brilliant)

“I’m good.”

Zayn’s mouth stretches into a knowing grin. “Liar,” he accuses.

Liam blinks, not even bothering to argue. He’s sweating. Thinking a bit too fiercely, his face wrinkles up when Zayn tilts his head.

“Only in for two days?”

“Two days,” Zayn repeats, nodding slowly. He’s still staring at Liam, waiting. Picking apart Liam’s shitty attempt at being nonchalant.

Liam swallows, breaking eye contact. There’s a minibar in the corner of the room, Liam shuffling off to it. He’s been playing Sade all evening, just to relax. And Watson is tucked away out back, leaving the house pretty empty.

Except for Zayn. On his sofa. Probably restless from jet lag but looking comfortably at home at the same time.

“Just two days,” Liam struggles to get out.

(It’s awful; how he wants Zayn around for more than a visit. Much longer.)

“You gonna keep repeating y’self?” Zayn’s laughing from the sofa, sinking into the cushions.

Liam glances over his shoulder, offering a nervous smile.

He needs a drink. One of those blackout instances where he doesn’t remember one bit of this moment (or his stupid thoughts) because Zayn is right here.

And Liam doesn’t want him to go, this time.

His hands are shaking when he pours a glass of whatever his fingers touch first.

Zayn sits up some. Still looking soft, he whispers, “Should I go or summat? You look like―”

“No,” Liam squeaks, quickly. “Just have a drink with me?”

It’s instant, the red alerts going off in his head: bad idea; _really bad idea_.

But he half-turns, wrinkles in his forehead when he grimaces a smile. Zayn returns it with a little more fondness.

“Okay. Cool, mate, we can do that,” he concedes.

 _Mate_.

The word sticks in Liam’s head. Not _‘babe’_ as per usual. Not a hint of that affection Zayn usually swings into his voice. Because they’re just friends. Kisses and dirty phone conversations don’t exist between them.

And Liam has no idea why his heart thinks it’s okay to want more from Zayn.

Bloody idiot.

Liam fixes them drinks―whiskey straight. Appropriate. He pads over to Zayn, flopping down, ignoring the way Zayn flashes him a grateful smile when Liam shrugs closer.

It’s just natural―fitting himself to Zayn’s side.

They’d done it for years. He thinks, even now, Zayn wants it just as much as he does.

Halfway through their glasses, Zayn offers, “Hey, wanna have a spliff also?”

Liam shrugs, slouching. Their feet are kicked up, shoulders touching. Sade soothes the darkness they sit in. Shadows kick about the walls, the telly blinking blue light into the room.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You sure?”

Grinning lazily, Liam raises his eyebrows until his forehead wrinkles up. Zayn’s always needed his approval for things like this―

Liam still appreciates that.

“Give it a go,” he mumbles.

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t really care if Zayn has a joint. His mind is hung up on the way his heart is rabbiting in his chest. This is all probably a terrible idea. Best to bail out while he still can.

“Sounds good, _mate_.”

Liam doesn’t look for Zayn’s reaction when he puts emphasis on the last word. But he waits on it. Chugging half his drink, Liam’s counting the breaths before Zayn shrugs and staggers into the hallway for his carry-on, searching for the spliff.

(Not meaning to, Liam realizes in those few minutes how much he misses Zayn being pressed that close to him―

The sting of it doesn’t dull until he takes another sip of his drink.)

An hour later, they’re high and Liam is just two gulps away from being drunk. He can definitely feel the buzz. It catches in his fingertips, little tingles. Down to his toes, his blood summer hot. He likes this feeling―hasn’t had it in long enough.

Sprawled lazily on Liam’s massive sofa, they’re hip to hip. Zayn’s giggling, turned towards him. His hand is in Liam’s hair. Liam’s leg is draped over Zayn’s thigh. Every few seconds, they drift into each other, laughing.

The room is bathed in shadows. Liam is either too lazy or too drunk to flip on the overhead light. He thinks Zayn prefers the dark, anyway. Sometime earlier, Liam stopped pouring drinks and settled on just grabbing a bottle.

Zayn hadn’t complained.

They fall into quiet, comfortable conversations so easily. Loads of talking about nothing at all. Liam appreciates it. He appreciates Zayn more, the way he just giggles madly at everything Liam says. Slowly, they’re listing closer and Liam hardly pays it any mind.

He’s lost on the sound of Zayn’s voice and the low music.

(It’s a mood, innit? The kind where you’re either seconds from snogging or falling asleep―Liam thinks it’ll probably be the latter.)

“And you should’ve seen me mum’s face,” Zayn snorts. There’s these rich crinkles around his eyes, behind his glasses. “All the walls were mucked up with paint. She swore she’d never visit me in LA again.”

Liam sinks into the cushions, giggling. Absently, he’s tossed an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, permitting him to feel every one of Zayn’s laughs.

Unconsciously, he laughs too.

Zayn passes him the bottle. Liam doesn’t hesitate. One more for the fuck of it, right?

“Gonna see the new Spider-Man?” Zayn wonders, letting out a little sigh-whine hybrid. “Looks pretty sick.”

“S’ppose so.” Liam’s not really considering it. But the idea of maybe catching a film with Zayn, late into the summer, feels appealing.

Like he’s done it a hundred times in their lifetime but barely recognizes how important it was until now.

“Could get tickets.”

“Could buy dinner,” Liam offers.

Against Liam’s shoulder, Zayn’s turned his head just enough for Liam to feel the smile he gives. It’s weirdly sobering. The hot pool of _something_ keeps bubbling in Liam’s tummy.

“Tommo asked about you.” Liam says it as an afterthought, just to get everything out of his head.

Zayn stays quiet. His fingers drum over Liam’s thigh, keeping time with the music.

Liam swallows dead air. “Nialler too. Even Haz―”

“Li,” Zayn whispers, tilting his head up.

Hesitantly, Liam tucks his chin to look down at Zayn. His beanie is pushed back and his glasses sit kind of funny on his nose. His eyes are lazy (like they always are when he’s good and high) but his mouth quirks awkwardly and crookedly.

Zayn’s own funny smile.

“If they missed me, they’d call,” he mumbles.

Liam tightens his mouth. He wants to argue that Zayn could do the same. But he’s learned there’s no good in that.

In the background, Sade switches to Bob Marely. Something Liam recognizes instantly. Next to him, Zayn grins. They don’t speak for a long minute but it’s not a heavy silence.

(it’s not awkward and unwelcoming, like Liam expects, considering the last topic they were just on)

“Its good music,” Liam says, sheepish.

“Yeah.”

Carefully, Liam pulls off Zayn’s beanie just to drag his hand through Zayn’s thick hair. Zayn doesn’t pull away―a good sign. Liam knows, underneath the fantastic strain of weed Zayn brought and the alcohol, Zayn’s a bit jumpy. Cagey when talking about the lads.

(Liam gets that. He feels like an idiot for ruining a moment or whatever.)

This is his only trick―helping Zayn relax. Settle back into that loose, floppy bloke he’s been all night.

“D’you borrow your taste in tunes from me, man?”

Zayn’s teasing, Liam can tell. But there’s a bit of truth to it. Zayn’s always challenged Liam to find new music. New books to read (even though Liam’s still a manic Harry Potter fan) or foods to sample.

“Might’ve.”

Zayn snorts, leaning his head further into Liam.

Liam doesn’t budge. Just his fingers, still playing along Zayn’s scalp. He’s trying to drown in his high. In the alcohol surfing through his blood.

(He’s nearly there, he swears.)

It all happens out of nowhere (he’ll realize later that it is _fate_ , honestly, doing all the work here) and starts before Liam’s ready―

Zayn’s hand stills on Liam’s thigh. It draws back, distracting Liam. And Zayn uses it like an advantage, grinning, shifting about the sofa. Eventually, Zayn crawls up into Liam’s lap, swinging a leg over to bracket him in.

It’s all shock from there. Like Liam’s frozen in his high, his brain moving so slowly.

Warm hands cup Liam’s cheeks, centering him. Caging him in. Instinct takes over and Liam’s hands go freely to Zayn’s back, balancing him.

“Careful,” he murmurs. Thankfully, he doesn’t stutter like a bumbling first-timer or summat.

Zayn’s lips smirk sideways. His thumbs sweep under Liam’s bottom eyelashes.

Together, they inhale. It’s like preparing for a jump into a massive ocean. Fear sparks the adrenaline.

Liam’s eyeing Zayn’s mouth. Perfectly pink and bitten wet. In his trousers, his dick gives a little pulse. Being embarrassed over a semi isn’t even half of his problems because―

Zayn leans right in. He kisses Liam with purpose. There’s no defining accident this time. Zayn’s mouth moves like it’s a bit starved for Liam’s lips. It’s bright and a hint sloppy. One of those properly anxious snogs.

Liam tries not to react.

Except, Zayn’s sighs a moan against his lips and they open for Zayn’s tongue. He feasts on the bitter alcohol in Zayn’s mouth. His teeth click over Zayn’s bottom lip, his body moving towards Zayn’s.

Those kisses drift. Over his stubbly jawline. Underneath, to the skin of his neck, across his birthmark. Soft, wet lips finding every mole across Liam’s throat.

“Christ.”

Zayn exhales over Liam’s skin.

Liam can’t refrain the shiver that rakes up his body.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn whispers, breathless.

“For what?”

“Dunno,” Zayn sighs. Awkwardly, he threads a hand through Liam’s hair. “For all of it. If I can’t give you what you want―”

Fuck. He can. But Liam won’t _let_ him.

“―cause I was probably a shit friend. I _am_ a terrible friend. Shit, babe, I dunno. ‘m fucked.”

That’s it. Just that one word. _‘Babe.’_ It drives Liam mad.

Determinedly, Liam’s hands find Zayn’s waist, anchoring him to Liam’s lap. His chin knocks Zayn’s forehead to raise his head. Their noses brush and Liam exhales so loudly. Because the frustration is building like a tidal wave.

Sloppily, Liam feeds Zayn kisses. And tongue. Whatever Zayn will take, Liam’s ready to give.

Zayn laughs into his mouth when they can’t quite position their bodies properly. Zayn’s curled over him, Liam slouched into the sofa. But they find a way―kisses never getting too far from target.

Liam’s nuzzles his way down to Zayn’s throat. Above him, Zayn moans gratefully. There’s a hint of stubble that tickles the tip of Liam’s tongue. And so much skin to taste.

He loves the way Zayn smells―a bit sour from the travel but the heaviness of sandalwood still sticks to Zayn’s skin. He fancies the way Zayn reacts to his nose snuffling Zayn’s throat, teeth nipping politely at skin.

“Careful,” Zayn hums.

Liam laughs, licking instead of biting. “Won’t leave any marks.” In his mind, he thinks _‘this time’_ but he’s not thought that far ahead about this.

Probably best not to, he reckons.

“Get your trousers down a bit, like,” Zayn moans, rolling his hips. “Wanna feel more of, like―”

Zayn’s all stops and starts. But Liam gets it. He obeys, using one hand to drag his joggers down some while his other pinches at Zayn’s hip.

(He doesn’t really need Zayn to squirm out of his skinnies―Liam’s just coordinated enough to pop the button, drag down the zip, rearrange Zayn’s cock until it pokes through the fly of his pants.)

“Mouth,” Zayn gasps.

Liam pushes up and Zayn meets him halfway. Their foreheads bump and they groan, exasperated.

“You’re terrible.”

“Shut up,” Liam hisses, finding Zayn’s mouth before he can protest. The kiss lasts long enough for Liam to angle his hips so his prick drags along the seam of denim just behind Zayn’s balls.

It’s proper friction from there. Liam’s rubbing off along the slight curve of Zayn’s arse. Zayn’s pushing his leaking prick (still soaking the cotton of his pants) over Liam’s belly.

His shirt rucks up and Liam feels the wetness against his bare skin. It’s hardly disgusting. In fact, if Liam was limber enough, he’d sneak a taste of Zayn’s precome or suck him off.

(and _wow_ ―he’s never imagined this being quite real, just in his dreams)

Zayn’s mouth is slack, properly open for more kisses. Deeper snogging. Liam doesn’t waste a moment.

“Faster,” Zayn pleads.

There’s a neat wrinkle between his eyebrows that Liam admires between kisses. He wants to laugh at it―Zayn’s one tell that he’s concentrating fully on their dicks.

“Can I grab it?” Liam asks, sucking in wind because all of this is make him breathless.

Zayn squirms, nodding.

Awkwardly, Liam fits a hand and a forearm between them. He runs his other hand beneath Zayn’s shirt, feeling the sweat over his back.

Touching Zayn’s dick through his pants is wild. It’s absolutely mad. The slickness sticking to Liam’s palm. The little glimpses of the dark head sneaking under the waistband. Liam coos at the thickness, how the shape of the tip fits between his fingers.

“Fucking hell, _Leeyum_ , pull me off.”

Liam laughs wordlessly against Zayn’s neck. He leaves patchwork kisses over the skin.

And he rubs Zayn off to the pace of his kisses.

Zayn’s fingers dig into Liam’s shoulders, his dick riding the width of Liam’s palm. He presses back, strategically, to rub his arse across Liam’s cock.

“So good.”

“Gonna, like. _Soon_. Babe, I’m gonna―”

Liam hisses out encouragement. His head snaps back, feet rooted to the ground to thrust his hips into Zayn’s barely-there arse. A good rub and grind, he thinks. Always fancied this part best.

Zayn’s panting above him. “Can’t keep going.” He’s sweating and pink from receding blush.

“Don’t have t’ wait on me,” Liam promises. Squeezing the shaft, Liam leans up. His lips teases the rim of Zayn’s mouth. “Kinda wanna see what you really look like when you come, s’ all.”

Zayn’s fingers skim the nape of Liam’s neck. And he shivers, half-mast eyes staring at Liam.

There’s something raging in Liam’s belly―drunken affection.

He wants to vomit it up, this bugger of emotion drowning him.

Zayn sighs out a whine, craning to meet Liam’s mouth. He starts a slow wind of his hips, working himself against Liam’s hand. Liam peels the sopping cotton away, curling his hand around Zayn’s bare cock.

It’s all it takes, really.

(Years on the road with four other lads, he’s heard his fair share of each of them getting off. But Zayn’s always been the stealthy one. He’s a quiet hiss or a soft muffling, sometimes just a clipped gasp. Even with a partner―which now that Liam thinks about it, he’d felt sick over those nights Zayn went on a pull with Harry because, well―Zayn’s more encouraging of someone else being loud while he blurts a half-moan when he’s finishing up.)

With his mouth pressed to Liam’s, Zayn’s properly loud. It’s a wicked noise. Crowding itself into Liam’s ears, he wants it to go on for lifetimes.

“Babe,” Zayn growls, still coming, still softly hacking out noises.

Liam bites his lips and tries to contain himself. He fails like a miserable twat.

Keeping Zayn’s hips still, Liam grinds off on his arse. He’s so zoned out on Zayn’s orgasm that his own sneaks up on him. It’s a bloody shock, forcing Liam’s toes to curl and his spine to go stiff.

“Fucking son of a―”

His fingers dig a little too solidly into Zayn’s hip. And his damp brow slides over Zayn’s shoulder. His legs kick wide when he comes, spreading the messy spurts all over his joggers. They’re damp and sticky and Liam can’t quite give a fuck at the moment.

Not when Zayn’s giggling above him.

“Quiet you,” Liam grunts.

“Can’t believe y’ just―”

“Got off?”

“Wet your trousers,” Zayn snorts. He’s got fingers curling into Liam’s hair, a sympathetic gesture Liam wants to knock away.

Liam huffs a noise. He lets Zayn stay in his lap, even if he’s feeling a bit disgusting with soaked trousers and fingers sticky with Zayn’s tacky come. Liam just needs a moment to recover. Or work this all out in his head.

“That wasn’t weird.”

“Not at all, babe,” Zayn sighs, still a bit tickled, Liam can tell. “Not since we had a bit of a chat over the phone about―”

“Right.” Liam winces. “Thought you might’ve forgot about that.”

Zayn snorts, tracing his fingers from the back of Liam’s skull to sweaty nape of his neck. He’s grinning, Liam can feel it. “Hardly.”

Liam hums. His mind is racing, even in his intoxicating state, but all he thinks to say is, “The room is spinning.”

“It’s upside down, man.”

“We should do summat about that.”

“Think so?”

Liam breathes an annoyed noise. “Zayn,” he whines.

Out of nowhere, kisses are spread across his hairline. The kind Zayn would give him after a bad night on stage. After having a row with Louis. When his grandfather got sick and Liam couldn’t do anything about it.

(The kind of kisses you don’t forget, he reckons.)

“I’ve got a suite booked just in case―”

“Upstairs,” Liam demands, sounding a tad indignant. He squeezes Zayn’s hip, like an apology.

Zayn relaxes into him. “Okay,” he mumbles. “But I go back in―”

“Two days,” Liam grunts. Yeah, _he remembers_. The reminder is unnecessary.

Bob Marley and Lauryn Hill are jamming in the background. Liam thinks, for a second, he could just stay here. He’s quite used to Zayn being in his lap. And the sofa is so comfy, considering he’s probably too drunk and high to climb every one of those damn steps to the master suite.

But Zayn’s up and reaching for him after a minute. Rolling his eyes, Liam gives it a go.

It takes them nearly twenty minutes but they manage to find their bearings. Together.

(all of these bad ideas are adding up into an epic tale that Liam will reveal to Niall―and _Niall only_ ―one of these months when they catch up)

 

|+|

 

It’s nearly noon when Liam wakes up the next morning. The sun keeps tapping at his eyelids (because, stupidly, he was too drunk to remember to shut the curtains) and he feels wrung out. His head throbs like he’s been smashed by Thor’s hammer. It’s awful.

And his massive bed feels tiny, compact with Zayn curled up in it with him.

When he blinks over at Zayn’s messy hair, his face half-tucked into a pillow, the pool of warmth Liam keeps getting flares up.

Squinting his eyes, Liam thinks he could stare at Zayn for hours. Except, he can’t. He needs to take a leak.

Carefully, Liam shuffles backwards out of bed. Finding his footing, he looks over his shoulder. Zayn’s still fast asleep. Brilliant.

(He nearly knocks into a wall trying to walk backwards, watching Zayn, considering how all of this is a bit mad, innit? Zayn shouldn’t be in _his bed_ and Liam shouldn’t remember how Zayn’s dick feels and his morning stiffy shouldn’t be about one of his best mates.

Or whatever Zayn is these days.)

Liam shuffles all of those thoughts aside. He takes a piss, lets Watson in for the morning, finds two water bottles in the cupboard, and sneaks back upstairs.

Back in his bedroom, Zayn’s stretched out onto Liam’s side of the bed. He looks soft and warm. And a bit too comfortable.

(like he _fits in_ here―his glasses on Liam’s bedside table, his jeans wrinkled on the floor, his carry-on in the foyer downstairs)

Honestly, waking him up would be criminal, even if Liam’s considering the benefits of not having to worry over Zayn when he’s this hungover.

Sighing, Liam can’t fight his smile. This is all too mental for him, but he’ll leave that for other conversations with himself.

Right now, Liam pads over to the bed, depositing the water bottles on the nightstand for later. He crawls right back to his side of the bed, sprawling himself across Zayn’s back.

Zayn doesn’t move. He hums and sighs, slowly snoring again.

Liam presses his nose to Zayn’s naked spine, he’s mind set on _‘fuck it’_ mode so easily.

It only takes him two minutes before he’s off again, snoring away like Zayn below him.

 

|+|

 

_‘you used to have a face straight out of a magazine; now you just look like anyone.’_

 

|+|

 

The change isn’t instant. It’s not apparent either. Maybe he Facetimes with Zayn a bit more when he goes back to LA. And they text, they call when they think the other ones not too wrapped up in things (not that Liam ever is, but still).

Liam even fits in a few Skype sessions when he finally figures out time zones (thank heavens for Ruth, even if he never tells her _why_ he needs to know the time in LA). Zayn’s always a bit giddy then, laughing every time Liam yawns. He shows off his new graffiti and, for once, Liam talks about the tunes he’s writing.

“Gonna let me hear ‘em one day?”

“Nope.”

“You twat.”

“Wanker.”

“Don’t be so cheeky, babe.”

On the video screen, Liam sees himself roll his eyes. “Don’t be thick,” he says.

“My mum’s been asking about you.”

Liam smiles sheepishly every time Zayn does this―reminds Liam that he’s bled his way into all of these little facets of Zayn’s life again. His evenings, his family, even his morning routine of messaging Liam before having tea.

Across the video feed, Zayn laughs when Liam blushes like a maniac.

It’s gross, Liam thinks one day. When he realizes he hasn’t bothered to schedule his next meeting with Niall. Or when his mum asks about his weekend and he wants to shout about how he spent Saturday night in, playing Marvel vs. Capcom online, against Zayn.

(Thankfully, he doesn’t. Zayn has always been his mum’s favorite. She’ll flip if she knew―she might just commit murder one to get to Zayn, he reckons.)

But Liam knows something’s changing. Luckily, he finds other things to fill his mind so he doesn’t get too wrapped up in―

Well, it’s this _thing_ now, okay?

(It becomes obvious how neither of them speak about _that night_. It goes under the radar to this familiarity they’ve developed again. And Liam never asks for more. Zayn doesn’t quite _flirt_ with Liam but his emojis are a bit more affectionate― _what the fuck Liam?_ )

Things go quiet on Zayn’s end when he goes to New York for a week. It’s just promo but he stays busy. And Louis been begging Liam to visit LA, so his PR arranges a flight for him in early July.

Liam sees Niall before then and Liam only manages to bring up Zayn _four times_. Yep. He’s keeping count now. It’s terribly pathetic.

His first two days in California are spent napping away the days. Spending years touring helped counter the jetlag. It’s been ages since he’s had that kind of stamina.

Louis keeps busy partying, never stopping by Liam’s hotel. He’s tried ringing up Harry but all he gets is a full voicemail. Stubbornly, Liam wonders if they’re together. Doesn’t matter.

By the third day, Liam is antsy. He can feel it in his bones―he needs to get out.

He thumbs a quick text to Louis― _‘studio 2day?? link up w/ julian. downtown.’_

Three hours later, he doesn’t hear from Louis. And he abandons trying to track down Harry, complaining to Niall about it.

“Told ya t’ stick with me, lad. Those knobs are never good at making plans,” Niall laughs.

Liam hangs up on him. And pouts, sitting in the back of a car, staring out the heavily tinted windows. He’s made plans with Julian and a few other songwriters in the area. He’ll kill time until Louis shakes off his hangover. Or whatever’s keeping him.

And Liam loves the studio. Loves his alone time there, tinkering with the keyboards or dicking about at the mixing boards. Creating sounds, trying to tie together his thoughts and the music.

It’s all he ever does.

“Ready to make magic?” Julian teases.

Liam shoots him a smile from behind the boards, rubbing his hands together. It’s been too long since he’s given himself a chance to create music with others. Develop a sound meant for the boys. It feels like the start of something. He’s ready to bring his lads back together.

Except, nothing ever happens during these sessions. Hours in the studio and he can’t put together his thoughts with proper words. It’s always this way. Nearly a year of trying and Liam hasn’t created anything. Hasn’t finished one song.

It makes him quite bitter.

(no, it makes him sullen because this is his life now― _Liam Payne, forgotten member of One Direction_ )

Louis texts him at half eight in the evening― _‘Chinese?? I will pay bro ;)’_

Angrily, Liam refuses to reply. He’s slumped in the booth, looking over a notebook filled with empty songs, biting his fingernails. Christ, he should just fly back to London and be done with it.

A minute later, his phone buzzes. It lights up; Liam does too.

_‘heard you were in la? me too! plans ? x’_

It’s from Zayn. Liam’s mouth frames a smile he can’t hide from anyone. Luckily, there’s no one around―Julian and the boys long gone for drinks at some bar down the road.

Frantically, Liam types back: _‘none!! :)’_

He’s packing up his things before the next text even comes through. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s a bit anxious. No, _hopeful_. The casual thought that, somewhere in the same city, Zayn’s thinking the same thing about him makes this placid feeling in his stomach a little stronger.

Liam grins at Zayn’s response― _‘u haven’t seen my place yet :(‘_

Chuckling, he taps back a quick reply: _‘takeout???’_

Liam shrugs on his backpack, dials up the car service and Paddy before he can get through the door of the studio. On the way, he Googles a few restaurants nearby, considers waiting for Zayn’s address just in case the food might get cold on the way.

A brilliant plan hits him as he passes through security―

_‘can U cook ?!?’_

Zayn’s only reply is a goofy emoji. Liam grins down at his phone, climbing into the back of the car. It’s fitting―Zayn has never been a man of many words.

Not even with Liam.

 

|+|

 

It’s like being in another world, Zayn’s house in Bel Air. It’s still a mess of artwork and nerdy things (that Liam appreciates) but it’s different. It’s still chill, like Zayn always is. But different. Very California. Liam can’t quite describe it. In fact, he’s stopped trying to think of words for it after dinner.

“Sick,” he whispers, gazing at one wall filled with Marvel graffiti and Polaroids Zayn’s taken of the city.

Liam tilts his head to pick through the collage of things.

Quietly, Zayn sprawls himself against Liam’s back. He’s smiling, Liam can see it in his peripheral. It’s lazy and wanton, the way Zayn gets after a good buzz.

“Think so?”

“Yeah,” Liam breathes, leaning back into Zayn. “How long did it take?”

“Months,” Zayn sighs, exasperated. “On and off. Bit of infrequent inspiration. Don’t like to stay out here too much. Miss home too much.”

Liam hums, turning his head just enough that the tip of Zayn’s nose presses into his cheek. It’s a bit affectionate; neither of them minds much.

“I can’t imagine, man. Feels so dreamy out here. Always liked it.”

“Can’t tell,” Zayn laughs. He smooths a hand down over Liam’s belly, rubbing it. “You never get out here much. S’ppose it’s all a bit of ethics, though.”

“How so?” Liam asks, even though he doesn’t get what Zayn’s talking about.

Honestly, he just likes hearing Zayn talk. Period.

“You grew up loving everything about England. You were raised to be a Brit, babe. It’s in your blood,” Zayn says, his voice dipping into that happy lowness. “You don’t like American football and you still root for Adele―”

“Her voice is amazing,” Liam blurts.

“―over any other artist. It’s very you,” Zayn finishes, ignoring Liam’s pouty lips.

Liam rolls his eyes, tipping his head to rest against Zayn’s shoulder. Their bodies sway a bit. It’s nothing they never did before. But it all feels a bit more secure now. Like they’ve decided, against all things natural, they were going to always be next to each other.

(it’s little declarations like those that fuck with Liam’s head; a proper mess, he is)

“Wanker,” he whispers, turning his head again.

Zayn smacks a kiss to Liam’s temple, laughing.

Quietly, they stand and look at the wall. Zayn’s hands low on Liam’s stomach. One of Liam’s hands coming up to cover Zayn’s. The night falling into this massive house like an avalanche.

In the hills, everything is sound and soft. Liam can’t hear a thing but Zayn’s breathing next to his ear. It’s soothing. He shouldn’t be so used to it now, after only a few hours.

“Show me more?” Liam requests.

Zayn’s smile curls higher. “Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

By Liam’s ear, Zayn snorts. Also, he presses a kiss to the lobe. This sort of fondness is becoming an epidemic. It’s fair to say Liam’s going to be a bit gone over all of it by the time he flies back to London.

That’s pretty awful, innit?

“In a minute,” Zayn promises. His nose rubs off on Liam’s cheek. “Kinda wanna just chill for a mo’, okay? Haven’t done this in, like. I just haven’t. With anyone I cared―”

Zayn’s voice dies off. Liam’s thankful. He doesn’t want to hear it. Because, at any second, Zayn could disappear again. All of them are a bit touch and go in Liam’s life these days.

After nearly two years, Liam doesn’t know why he continues to remain so attached.

“Cool,” he scratches out.

“Cool,” Zayn repeats, softer.

They sway some more. Their bellies are full from Zayn’s incredible spaghetti bolognese and the wine (he recognizes that’s the sort of thing one brings on a _date_ but, well) Liam grabbed on the way. They’re barefoot, in one of the rooms in Zayn’s giant house. The moon is a sliver outside, bulleting silver light inside.

And Liam doesn’t have to move to feel like Zayn’s showing him something new.

How incredibly daft that sounds, he knows. In fact, Liam’s always known.

But he hasn’t been able to stop himself from thinking these terribly stupid thoughts whenever Zayn’s around.

 

|+|

 

While Zayn has a smoke out in the yard, Liam plays with Harley and Zayn’s other dogs. They trample him, licking playfully at his cheeks. He wrestles them away, laughing. It echoes all through the house. Zayn’s right―he doesn’t spend much time here.

It’s fairly empty. Just the things Zayn needs while away from England. Like he refuses to plant himself firmly in California. Not without a reason to leave England behind.

(Distantly, Liam’s been hoping _he’s_ the reason. Again, stupid thoughts are his thing.)

When Zayn comes back in, he has another glass of wine. Sprawls over a sofa, watching Liam wrestle a chew toy from Harley. Giggling, Zayn crinkles his nose at Liam.

Liam thinks to blame his dizziness and warmth on the bloody wine he’s been downing.

“C’mere.”

Without thinking, Liam scrambles over to Zayn. He flops down next to him, sighing. He hasn’t been this loose in days. As if being around Zayn drains every little worry he’s been shouldering for months.

“Love you,” Zayn mumbles, half of his mouth against Liam’s sweaty temple.

A bit dramatically, Liam coos, snickering when Zayn whacks his arm.

“Love you too, babe,” he says without hesitation.

(After all, it’s what they’ve always said, innit? On tour, during their downtime, when they were alone and giddy. It’s nothing, really.)

(But this time, it feels like it is.)

“Stay?”

Liam crooks up an eyebrow. Confused, his mouth parts but words never make it out.

Zayn swoops down and kisses him, slow and deep. Liam reaches up, steadies a thumb to Zayn’s jaw, prying it down to flick his tongue into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn moans, pleased.

“Stay,” Zayn rasps. “Know you had plans with Lou but―”

“On one condition.” Liam’s mouth is still close enough to kiss the exhale off Zayn’s lips.

Zayn pulls back enough to raise his eyebrows for Liam to see. He’s questioning.

Liam’s lips lift into a shifty smirk. “Beat me at Ms. Pac-Man and I won’t trouble you for an extra pair of pants.”

Breathily, Zayn laughs. There’s a crinkle on the bridge of his nose that Liam notices just before Zayn leans into another kiss. This one short and playful.

But it’s like a promise. _Next to each other_. Even in bed, Zayn will be right there.

 

|+|

 

_‘I feel as though I was deceived. I never found love in the city. I just sat in self-pity and cried in the car.’_

 

|+|

 

Liam reschedules his flight back home. He pleads an illness to Paddy, even though it’s not very convincing. But Paddy smirks, patting his shoulder, laughing out _‘tell Malik I said hullo’_ before booking an extended stay at their hotel. Under Liam’s credit card, of course.

He blows off any plans with Louis. Liam’s still a bit pissed and all of Louis’ apology texts feel routine.

Instead, he camps out at Zayn’s for a few days. Lounging under the sun in the backyard. Helping Zayn cook when he’s home. Exploring Bel Air a bit. Spending time doing nothing in a different setting.

For once, Liam doesn’t feel a bit guilty about any of it.

(At night, Zayn kisses him infrequently―like he’s still testing out if he _can_ ―and sleepily wraps nervous fingers around Liam’s wrist to lead him to bed.

It never goes any further than that, though.

Truthfully, Liam thinks that’s a wise move. Not that he’s not waking up every morning, horny and sporting massive wood.

But figuring this all out is hard enough. Muddling it with a shag would really wreck his mind.)

Liam spends a few days at the studio. Still nothing. Just a handful of wasted sessions and a confused Julian when Liam stomps out of the booth, muttering to himself.

Zayn never bothers him about it. He goes out with friends, goes to his own studio, disappears here and there just to get out of the house.

(Liam gets that―how Zayn’s always needed his own space to think. Away from the lads. Some weeks, they didn’t know if Zayn was even at home. Radio silence is his talent. Zayn needs time to himself and he’s never been polite about letting the world know a thing about it.)

It’s how Liam ends up here―pacing Zayn’s bedroom. Stewing in his own thoughts. Reminded so bluntly that, yes, Zayn has the right to go away.

All of them do.

They owe Liam nothing.

It’s how this starts―the thoughts. Reality sinks into his head like a knife. He feels like he’s unsure of what he’s doing anymore. Or where he’s going, in life. He’s losing it.

At this rate, he’ll be in danger of being admitted for being a bloody lunatic, given enough time.

He’s stomping in circles when Zayn comes in. He’s fresh from the shower, towel secured around his waist, water dripping everywhere.

Zayn stops by the door. Liam freezes, too. He looks at the small puddles by Zayn’s bare feet rather than his face. He’s aware Zayn can sense his anger.

It’s just that―Liam’s shaking too much to hide it.

“Babe?”

“No.” Liam’s voice turns to a cracked hiss.

Zayn approaches. Liam steps back, flopping down on the edge of the bed. The tension in his arms, his spine, all over makes it hard for him to just run out. Call a cab, get back to England.

Get far away from Zayn Malik and this permanent _thing_ he wants to have with him.

But all he can do is slump forward, elbows on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Hey,” Zayn says, soft and gentle.

“Zayn, _please_.”

Zayn waddles up, fitting himself between Liam’s knees. He’s standing over him, dropping a still damp hand over the nape of Liam’s neck. The circles his fingers make in Liam’s muscles loosen him a bit.

“You gonna talk, Liam? Or am I gonna have’ta―”

“I’m _alone_. I’m always alone,” Liam heaves out. He’s still shaking, breathing heavy. “Ever since―” He pauses and Zayn’s fingers climb up into his hair.

“ _Talk_.” Zayn’s stern but kind with his tone.

Liam swallows, the lump thickening in his throat. “Can’t do anything about it. It was just s’ppose to be a break, but everyone keeps moving on. They have their lives and I’m just _there_. Always being left behind. _‘That poor sod Liam’_ is what the world probably thinks and I just―”

He sniffles. Zayn’s fingers smooth over his scalp. Just the way Liam does when Zayn’s a bit frantic.

“Tell me,” Zayn says, his voice gone scratchy. Nervous, even.

“You _left_ ,” Liam chokes. “And then Harry leaves. Louis is always coming and going, without me. Even Niall. And I can’t do a thing about it ‘cause no one owes me one bit. Not a fucking thing.”

The room goes quiet. Except, Liam’s breathing keeps getting louder. He’s not even sure if any of it is getting to his lungs anymore. “Everyone leaves me behind,” he whispers, covering his face with his hands.

Zayn’s hand rounds Liam’ head, to his temple. Fingers skim Liam’s hairline. Zayn’s drippy hair flicks water down on Liam’s jeans.

He doesn’t care.

“I dunno how to make it better.”

“It’s not your fault!” Liam shouts, frustrated. Most of his words are muffled into his palms but he feels Zayn jerk.

Fuck. He just wants to pull Zayn closer. That’s maddening in itself.

Liam can’t stop his heavy breaths. Or his shaking hands when he pulls them away. There’s thick tears clinging to his eyelashes. He’s done for, all on display for Zayn to feel sorry for.

Pathetic Liam Payne, former One Direction member. Or whatever he is to this world.

Zayn grabs Liam’s chin, lifts it. Through the bleary tears, Liam can see Zayn smiling. Christ, the bloody bastard is so _accommodating_. It’s a bit sickening, if Liam’s being honest.

The towel slips a little on Zayn’s waist. He doesn’t bother fixing it. Zayn merely holds Liam’s face in his hands, waiting out Liam’s accelerated breathing.

Liam’s hands come up to Zayn’s waist. That’s instinct kicking in.

Zayn bites at his lip. It turns white under the pressure. He cranes over Liam, close enough that their foreheads almost meet. It calms Liam, Zayn being this close. Of course, he’s this clingy when he feels ready to shred apart.

Zayn’s thumbs try to wipe the tears. Liam shakes free. Zayn blinks at him, worried.

“I’m sorry.”

“Li―you didn’t do anything.”

“But I am.” Zayn sighs, incredulous, and Liam falters for a second before scooting closer. He leans up, pressing a kiss over Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn welcomes it, opening up to it. His hands still hold Liam’s face. It’s a beautiful anchor. It keeps Liam steady while he kisses Zayn until their mouths are wet, raw.

“Sorry,” he repeats, drifting away. “Just don’t want you to go away.”

Zayn chuckles softly, nodding. “M’ not, y’know? Reckon I’ve sorted me’self out enough.”

“Can you sort me too?”

Zayn laughs again, this time fueled by the fondness he’s always been shit at hiding.

“Course. But only if you’ll get out of your own head long enough to see we love you. Always will,” Zayn says. “Can’t have your mind corrupted all the time. You’ll miss out on it.”

Liam’s mouth kisses drops of shower water from Zayn’s skin. He mouths at Zayn’s sternum, his nipples.

“On what?”

“On _me_ ,” Zayn sighs but there’s a grin in his voice.

Liam smiles over Zayn’s skin. His fingers loosen the knot of Zayn’s towel, letting it plop down on the floor. His lips drift lower, feeling the way Zayn’s stomach muscles tighten at all the attention.

Zayn hums above him, his cock fattening up instantly.

Liam watches, fascinated. He’s never been this close. His thumbs find the hollows by Zayn’s hips, rubbing circles there. And Zayn’s cock twitches upward, curving. The skin is darker, the veins showing, the tip plump and starting to get wet.

“Mind if I―”

Zayn tenses, choking off a moan at the back of his throat.

Testing his limits, Liam leans down, dragging his tongue across the tip of Zayn’s prick. He licks away, getting it sloppy. Shiny and pulsing. The taste is funny but welcome.

“That alright?”

Zayn whines, stepping in closer.

Liam chuckles but doesn’t keep Zayn at bay. His fingers curl around Zayn’s waist and he slots his mouth open. Waits, letting Zayn feed him his cock. His mouth waters a bit and Liam closes his lips around the tip, feeling Zayn push in just a bit further.

Zayn scrambles a hand into Liam’s hair, just leaning. He doesn’t push. Liam is grateful.

This is new―having a cock in his mouth. He tries to remember all the things he fancies about blowjobs― _no teeth, keep your mouth wet, go fast and slow_. His eyes slip shut and he takes Zayn in.

Liam swallows him down, pulling back to breathe, slurping his way back down the shaft.

“Oh fuck,” Zayn croons.

Liam takes it as a sign. He focuses on the head, slurping at it. Salvia dribbles out the corners of his mouth. Zayn’s bitter at the back of his throat―he fancies the taste.

Zayn manages a quiet groan. The hand on Liam’s head cups his skull. Gentles Liam further down.

Liam doesn’t choke, thankfully. He struggles a bit. Breathing through his nose is a challenge but he likes it. Taking Zayn deep, Liam swallows and tries to fit it all in his throat.

Above him, Zayn whimpers, dragging his hips back.

“ _Christ_ ,” Liam sobs, wiping at his mouth with the side of his hand. “Think you can fuck me mouth?”

Incredulously, Zayn squawks but shoves Liam’s head back towards his dripping cock. He laughs, canting his hips, letting Liam adjust for a second before going for it.

Liam takes it so well.

(There’s an inch of pride inside himself―he’s not exactly deep-throating but he’s taking Zayn’s cock well enough and it’s his first blowjob, okay, he can brag a bit.)

“Pull off while you do it,” Zayn requests.

It’s a struggle. Liam’s never been terribly coordinated. But he manages to tug down his jeans, gets a hand around himself. His foreskin sits snug under the tip. And there’s a heavy smear of precome the second his palms swipes over the slit. He’s so hard up for it, urged by how loud Zayn starts to get.

His jaw goes slack when Zayn cradles his head with both hands. Zayn keeps him in place, slowly guiding his cock in and out of Liam’s mouth.

It’s as if Zayn gets breathier the faster Liam’s hand moves on himself. The pink head spits out messy precome, making the slide easier. It’s one thing Liam thinks he has up on Zayn.

(and it’s completely dubious of him to have a pissing contest with Zayn over masturbation techniques but, well, it arouses him to another level)

“Fuck, babe,” Zayn gasps. His hips stutter and Liam nearly chokes. “You look so good. Your mouth. On me, it looks incredible.”

Liam pulls off, groaning. His spare hand wraps around Zayn’s prick, still so slick with Liam’s spit.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, babe,” Zayn moans.

Liam takes the cue, wanking Zayn off to the same rhythm he’s pulling off to. His mouth covers the heart inked on Zayn’s hip. His teeth nip the skin until Zayn hisses, tugging on Liam’s hair.

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna make me come.”

“But you’re so hard for this, babe,” Liam teases, leaning back in.

He mouths wet kisses all around Zayn’s navel, down to his hips. His nose snuffles into the hairs at Zayn’s cock, the scent heady.

“Can’ya get off without my mouth?”

“No,” Zayn grunts, trying to wriggle free.

Liam’s kisses press firmer. “Good,” he laughs, angling his head back down to capture Zayn’s dick between his lips.

Zayn whimpers, lurching forward, the tip fitting just at the back of Liam’s throat.

(bloody well must’ve never had a gag reflex, he imagines―he’ll tell Louis that one day just to taunt him)

Liam’s given up on focusing on himself. His hips just lift lazily for the friction but he’s not really wanking off anymore. His cock is slippery, gaining momentum over his palm, ready to explode if he gives it a bit more effort.

But he wants his attention on Zayn. On the noises he makes. The way he fights not to fuck Liam’s mouth too deeply. How his fingers never stay still in Liam’s hair.

It all drives Liam mad.

(Like most everything Zayn does, he swears)

“In your mouth?”

Liam only registers the question when Zayn’s hips slow completely. Blinking, he looks up. He can’t give much of a nod or say anything with Zayn’s cock sitting fat on his tongue. He blinks an answer, hoping Zayn understands.

Smirking, Zayn nods. Cautiously, he starts up his pace again. Sighing, Liam closes his eyes and works his palm all over the head of his own prick.

It’s maddening, how they both come like this. Zayn grunts, trying to hold it back this time but Liam starts to come over his knuckles and Zayn must see. He goes completely still, groaning like he’s caught fire before spilling into Liam’s mouth.

Liam gives a thoughtful hum, swallowing. It’s not awful―different and salty but not awful. And he takes it so well, letting Zayn spill thick spurts over his tongue. He gives an appreciative slurp, sniffling when he finally pulls off.

Before he can say a word, Zayn pushes him back on the bed. Crawls up him, peepers his jaw with kisses. Finds Liam’s mouth and works it open, even if Liam’s hesitating.

(it’s one thing to swallow your mate’s―or _whatever_ Zayn is―load but it’s entirely debatable whether you let him have a taste of his own jizz, okay?)

When Zayn pulls off, Liam turns his head to the side. He coughs up a laugh.

“I _swallowed_ , man.”

“You did,” Zayn replies, primly.

Liam rolls his eyes, his clean hand coming down to grab Zayn’s arse. He feels Zayn chuckle into his neck.

“That was good?”

Zayn draws back enough to flash Liam an annoyed expression. “I’ve not come that much since―”

“You visited me?”

“Was gonna say since I whacked off after we had that chat on Skype a few weeks back,” Zayn replies. Whispering, he leans in, “You were _shirtless_. And sweaty from a run. You had no right, babe. None at all.”

Liam giggles, giving Zayn’s arse a playful slap this time. Zayn doesn’t whine back.

Still tasting Zayn in his throat, Liam sighs. He turns his face enough that his nose pokes Zayn’s cheek. Zayn turns his head, too, grinning like a teenager.

“You’ll be late to meet your mates.”

Liam does his best not to frown or let Zayn catch him worrying.

Zayn huffs, nuzzling up against Liam’s nose. “Cancelled an hour ago,” he admits. “Didn’t really feel up for it. Plus I hadn’t really had any _Liam-time_.”

“You’ve had plenty,” Liam giggles.

“Nope,” Zayn sighs, lowering his voice. For a second, he looks serious. As if he’s trying to convey something to Liam without using the words. “Just wanted a night in, with you, I s’ppose. Movies. And I want you to add some drawings to my sick wall.”

“Sick wall,” Liam repeats, sighing out a content laugh.

“Yeah.”

“You sure? Don’t want to hold you up or―”

Zayn groans out his discontent. “Don’t be thick,” he reprimands. “And I want you to show me some of the stuff you’ve been working on. You never talk about your music.”

 _Cause it isn’t there_ , he thinks. Patiently, he replies, “Haven’t gotten much done.”

“Don’t care,” Zayn grins. “M’sure it’s enough. You’re enough. Now, quit hiding your sick tunes from me.”

Liam licks his lips, the taste of Zayn’s muskiness still leftover. He considers it all. And then, without much thought, he smiles.

“Okay. Cool.”

“Cool,” Zayn parrots, wrinkling his nose with a laugh.

Liam groans, rolling Zayn over, pinning him to the bed. He splays himself all over Zayn’s naked body. Zayn doesn’t put up much up a fight.

They kiss, chaste but with loads of bloody meaning. His thoughts are piling up in his head but Liam decides against talking them all out now.

Instead, he mouths his way down Zayn’s neck, already keyed up to have another go at it.

 

|+|

 

It’s still early, Liam sat under a halo of sun in Zayn’s living room. The house is oddly quiet. And everything looks so soft, serene from here.

This time, Liam doesn’t mind that he’s alone.

He quite fancies this moment to reset, find his center. To finally sort himself out.

(And he does, over tea, sat on the sofa, staring down at a notebook full of words.)

Next to him, his phone plays a loop of music he and Julian have been working at. Every few seconds, he jots down another verse. A pre-chorus. Whatever comes to mind, Liam scribbles out. He marks up three pages with ideas until he’s finished.

Until Liam finally feels content.

In less than an hour, Liam’s finished his first song in ages.

(It’s a song for _himself_ , really. And Liam wonders, strangely, if Julian knew that when they were piecing together the melody. That it wouldn’t fit the boys’ sound. If secretly he was coaxing Liam towards something different; something all his own.)

For the first time in years, Liam feels overwhelmingly _happy_.

In a house he’s starting to know. With a mate he’s certain he’s always been in love with. In a country far from home. None of it is supposed to fit, he reckons. This is all too strange, too out of place.

Leaning back, Liam takes it all in. In the background, he can hear Zayn shuffling upstairs. Knocking about like he always does when he first wakes up. He’ll come brooding downstairs soon, wondering where Liam’s snuck off to.

Smirking, Liam pushes off the couch. He pads into the kitchen, starts on making Zayn’s tea, and tries not to hurt his cheeks with how fiercely he’s been smiling all morning.

 

|+|

 

On his last day in California, he and Zayn ditch hiding off in the house (or, more appropriately, Zayn’s sex-soaked bedroom because they’ve been shagging like rabbits and Zayn _loves_ it) for breakfast at a café not far from Rodeo.

It’s sunny outside (like it always is here) and there’s an unsuspecting patio dining behind the café. There’s a wooden fence with ivy crawling up it. Umbrellas shade the tables. It’s quiet and quaint, the sort of place Liam imagines Zayn found exploring the city and never left.

They have tea while glancing over the plastic menus.

No one really notices them. Well, not _Liam_ , of course. But Zayn’s wearing one of Liam’s old shirts, a comfy-casual look. His hair is almost long enough to sit in a bun atop his head, threads of it still falling around his face.

Liam smiles at him across the table. He reaches over to fix Zayn’s glasses on his nose.

When he goes to pull away, Zayn turns his head enough to brush his chapped lips across Liam’s knuckles. A tad intimate, he knows, but Liam feels even warmer after his hand drops away.

“My mum called,” Zayn says, conversationally. He sips his tea. “The family wants you over when I go back.” Flushing, Zayn adds, quietly, “They’re all raving about you. Want you to come by for Eid, if that’s okay?”

Liam sucks in a breath, shocked. Leaning over the table, his foot wedged between Zayn’s, he blinks Zayn into focus.

“Really?”

Zayn nods, slow and nervous. His mouth keeps twitching. Honestly, it’s the cutest thing Liam’s seen.

“You don’t have to.”

“Course,” Liam says quickly. He’s still not breathing regularly. “I mean, that’d be wicked, Zayn. I’ve never―not been around your family like that, in a long time. It’s mental, like.”

Zayn laughs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “They’re just me family. They’re not royalty or summat.”

Liam scoffs at him. He drains his own tea, looking down. His hand hasn’t shifted too far from Zayn’s on the table.

“But that’s massive.”

“Yeah,” Zayn whispers, his grin thick in his voice without Liam having to look up and view it. “Me dad seems to think we’re dating.” Zayn’s voice trails off at that, impatient. Liam glances up, curious. And Zayn looks ready to scramble or blow the subject off.

With a shaking hand, Zayn pushes stray hairs behind his ear. “That’s terrible, innit?”

Liam swallows his tea. “Don’t s’ppose so.” He thinks it takes a bit of bravado he didn’t know he had to even say that much.

Zayn shrugs. Eventually, he smirks. “No big deal, huh?”

There should be so much more tension, considering. They haven’t had _the talk_ yet. And Liam doesn’t think it’s something he could even bring up, not so soon.

But here he is and there’s no alcohol in his blood to give him that extra courage. Brilliant.

“Your family thinks we’re dating,” Liam says, mostly to himself.

“C’mon, babe,” Zayn snorts, leaning back. “Would it be so horrible to date me?”

Liam doesn’t even consider it. “Well, no.”

“Would I make a horrible boyfriend?”

“I dunno.” Liam turns pink at the inquiry. “No?”

Zayn barks a laugh this time. He nudges Liam under the table, shaking his head.

“I can fix it, like. Have a proper chat with me family about it.”

Liam makes a protesting noise. He’s shaking his head, forehead wrinkled when he says, “It’s fine. Let’s just―I’m okay with it. I _want_ it.”

“You do?”

Smiling at Zayn’s surprise, Liam nods. And Zayn nods back. It’s all sorted then, he supposes.

They order sample platters and soak up the sun while waiting on their plates. Liam tells Zayn all about the calls he’s made to record labels, old friends. He’s scheduled a few meetings down the road. There’s an actual _interest_ in his solo tunes and he’s still amazed at that.

“Told you,” Zayn grins, reaching across the table. He smacks Liam’s cheek playfully. “You’re quite incredible.”

Liam makes a show of rolling his eyes but his cheeks heat up.

“M’ happy for you,” Zayn tacks on, when their food comes.

It’s sincere, only in the way Zayn could be. And for once, Liam absorbs it. He doesn’t fight Zayn on it. Quietly, he grabs Zayn’s hand under the table and gives it a squeeze. A silent _‘thank you’_ for a million things he hasn’t told Zayn yet.

Halfway through breakfast, Liam asks, “Would you like to see the lads?”

(Liam’s been cautious about this. He doesn’t bring up Louis anymore. And when Niall calls, Liam steps away so Zayn can’t listen. They’ve both mentioned Harry, but only in passing. Still, it’s been itching at Liam, for too long.)

Zayn shrugs. Tilting his head, he replies, “Not if they’re still pissed or upset with me. Like. Don’t want any of that. I’m settled with the distance if they are.”

“They’re not,” Liam says a little too swiftly. Across from him, Zayn tenses. Liam sighs, slumping forward.

Zayn swallows a mouthful of fruit. “So why am I only seeing you these days?” He’s grinning when he looks up.

“Cause you want to?”

Snorting, Zayn sucks in his lower lip. “Possibly,” he mumbles. After a beat, he adds, “S’true, love. I always want to see you.”

Liam can’t help the blush. If this was a different time, he’d be certain Zayn wasn’t even trying to chat him up.

“Always?”

Zayn sighs and laughs, at once. It’s the only answer he gives.

Well, that and―

Over the table, this time, Zayn grabs Liam’s hand. He turns their hands until he can fit his fingers between the spaces Liam provides. And they stay like that, even when the waitress drops off the bill (and eyes them pointedly, smiling sweetly) and the morning stretches on.

“Y’sure it’s alright that me family thinks we’re, like,” Zayn pauses. His voice has gone shaky, like it does during interviews or when too much attention is on him.

“We’re dating,” Liam finishes for him.

“Yeah, _that_.”

There’s a new tea set in front of Liam. He hasn’t bothered to touch it. His throat has gone dry but, just maybe, he doesn’t need it.

“Yes,” he says, eventually. He waits on Zayn to raise his chin. “But only if you think the same thing.”

Zayn smirks. It’s closer to that soft smile he gives Liam every morning, hidden under the sheets.

“I’d like that.”

Liam laughs at that, bright and fond. He’s so miserably in love with Zayn―he kind of has been for longer than he’s been able to sort out. That’s no longer a problem, though.

When the dishes are cleared away, a girl steps over to the table. Liam’s noticed her eyeing them from inside the café. But she didn’t try to sneak pictures of them. And she’s shaking when she comes up.

“Zayn?”

They both look up, this familiar curiosity like they can’t imagine anyone knowing them.

“’lo,” Zayn says, cool and easy.

She tenses a bit. Her mouth splits into a smile, eyelashes fluttering. “Um, I’m Sato and I’m such a huge fan. Oh my god, can’t believe it’s _you_. Jesus, I love you so much.”

Ducking his head, Zayn laughs. Liam leans back, shaking his head, unable to hide his affectionate little grin at the sight.

(Zayn’s always hated but loved the attention he gets. He’s a bit of an enthusiastic hermit but he loves to greet their fans. _His_ fans, now. And seeing it floods Liam with something new.)

“Can I have a picture?” Sato requests, her voice a stutter now.

“Sure, babe.”

Sato barely contains her squeal. Brandishing her phone, she waves over the waitress. Zayn stands, towering a bit over her, wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders.

“It’s okay, love,” he laughs. For emphasis, he gives her a squeeze.

Sato nods. She looks freaked and seconds from passing out. It’s all amusing, especially for Liam.

But then her eyes chance over him and―

“Oh, sweet mother of―it’s _you_.” Sato’s eyes grow the size of saucers. Her mouth goes slack, her face paler. “Holy fuck, I didn’t even know you two, like. You still see each other and―oh my god. Too much. It’s Liam Payne!”

Liam winces, biting over his smile. And this doesn’t happen often―sure, at the Sainsbury’s back home. Sometimes in London. Rarely in the States, because they haven’t exactly been in the headlines as a band for awhile so―

“Would you like him to join us?” Zayn offers.

Liam scrunches his face. Zayn waggles his eyebrows teasingly. Liam debates on flipping him off, just for the sheer _‘fuck you’_ of retaliation he’d get.

“Oh my god, will you?”

Flustered, Liam shrugs. He smacks a palm over his face, laughing. He looks shit today. And there’s probably a litter of love bites from Zayn visible around his collarbones.

He thinks (to himself, of course) how this could be quite tragic. Or seen the wrong way―he and Zayn. At a quiet café. Holding hands, minutes ago.

But fuck it. He doesn’t give an absolute shit. It’s the happiest he’s been in ages. In years.

(It’s the first time Liam’s given himself a moment to appreciate that, if he’s being honest.)

“I’d love too,” he finally says.

Sato squeaks again, huddling closer to Zayn to make room for Liam in the frame. Between goofy pictures, she raves about missing the boys. How over the moon she is about seeing Zayn and Liam, together. About how happy this makes her.

“Me too,” Zayn grins, pulling away. He’s clear over her head, looking right at Liam. “I love Liam too much not to chill with him.”

Liam giggles, thumping a punch to Zayn’s shoulder. It’s all playful. But behind it, Liam means to say something else.

Zayn kisses Sato’s cheek, Liam kissing the other one. She nearly trips over her feet to get away. But she keeps looking back, making sure they’re there.

And Zayn laughs, waving at her. Liam does too, cheeks still a blotchy redness.

When she’s clear out of sight, Liam steps into Zayn’s space. Not too close; there’s eyes on them now. But the gap closes enough that Liam doesn’t need to raise his voice.

Softly, he says, “I love you too, _Zain_.” He affects his voice the way Jawaad does, tickled by the way Zayn blushes this time.

Instinctively, he knows Zayn wants to lean forward. To kiss him. Because it’s what they do now, a little too natural for it not to happen between them. But Zayn pauses, thoughtful. His mouth slips high and sideways, grinning. He appears loose, comfortably himself in front of Liam.

And Liam feels the same.

“There’s probably paps already gathering outside,” Zayn mentions.

Liam snorts, folding his hands behind his head. “Her Twitter feed is probably lit.”

“S’gonna be a mess out there.”

“Mayhem,” Liam sighs, rocking on his heels.

Zayn looks more than exasperated. He’s looking around, noticing a few diners watching them. A few phones pulled out, not that they’re directed at him and Liam.

But it’s that cagey, anxious Zayn that Liam recognizes.

Reaching out, Liam finds the nape of Zayn’s neck, carefully rubbing circles into his skin. It takes a bit longer for Zayn to relax into it. But Liam waits, patiently smiling.

“It’s cool,” he says, looking around. “I don’t mind if―we can leave, together, if ya want?”

After a quiet beat, Zayn gives him a tiny smile. “Together? Won’t that make the fans mental?”

“Should be fun.”

For a second, Zayn looks skeptical. Then, just as casual as he’s always sort of been, he tugs at the hem of Liam’s shirt. Laughing, he leads Liam into the café, towards the front doors.

It’s probably another wildly stupid idea. Very unlike-James Bond. Hardly covert.

These days, Liam thinks it’s a proper summary of who he is now.

 

|+|

 

“Settle down a bit, babe. You’ve been fidgeting for hours now. I mean, y’ look like you’re about to be judged on the X Factor again or summat.”

Liam looks incredulous when he stares at Zayn. He sighs, glancing down to mess about with the buttons of his cuffs again.

It’s a shame really because, well―Zayn’s right.

Liam’s been well nervous since a week ago when they made plans for the drive up to Bradford.

“Do not.”

Zayn laughs, turning away from the door to his parents’ home. Pressing the wrinkles out of Liam’s shirt, he tilts his head to flash Liam a crookedly fond smile.

“It’s just me family.”

Liam groans. “It’s more than that and you know it. Plus, it’s Eid. I mean, I haven’t exactly been around for something like this in ages.”

Zayn titters. Carelessly, he rubs a palm over Liam’s buzzed head.

(Liam shaved all his hair off a week ago, regretting it almost instantly when he looked in the mirror. Until Zayn cornered him, pressing a fond smile over Liam’s mouth, brushing his palm across the shorn hair. It felt so familiar―Liam could taste it.

He’s only ever enjoyed Zayn touching his hair like this.)

For a second, Liam swears he can see Zayn considering it―the last time Liam and the lads were around for one of Zayn’s family gatherings. When they were just young bits. Still learning all about Zayn’s culture and themselves, too.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Liar,” Liam grunts but, when he finds Zayn’s eyes behind those endlessly long eyelashes, he feels slightly relaxed. Because Zayn does that for him.

(Zayn’s just Liam’s calm and Liam would like to think he’s the same for Zayn; always has been)

Zayn leans forward, pecking a dry kiss to Liam’s cheek. Liam almost turns to reciprocate but then he hears laughing, muffled noises behind the door.

Just as quick, he’s hyper-aware again of what he’s doing.

 _Shit_.

“Do I look alright?”

Zayn smirks, tilting his head to size Liam up.

“I’d shag you.”

“You did.” Liam rolls his eyes, reaching up to fix Zayn’s glasses. “Twice, last night. ‘M still a bit sore over it, cheers.”

“Aww, bless,” Zayn returns, dipping forward for a real kiss this time.

It’s soft, rooted in something familiar that Liam’s adapted to now.

(he’s not kidding anyone because, if he’s being honest, every little thing about Zayn is recognizable and weirdly new at once these days)

“Now shut it,” Zayn grins, his nose nuzzling Liam’s. “Can’t have me walking into me family’s home with a semi and wanting to bend you over properly again.”

Liam flushes at the raw scratchiness in Zayn’s voice when he talks like that.

When Zayn turns to push the door open, Liam gives his bum a cheeky squeeze and ignores Zayn’s indignant squawk to follow him inside.

In less than a minute, Zayn’s crowded by a dozen relatives. It’s overwhelming, Liam thinks. They pull him into hugs and kisses, squealing over his hair, his tattoos, a constant _‘have you eaten at all because you look poorly how are you still so thin?’_ that Zayn snickers at. He bends over for every hug, taller than most of his aunts, hooking his chin over their shoulders.

In the middle of the swarm, he still finds Liam standing in the background, giving him little smiles, crinkles deep around his eyes.

(and Liam can admit that it makes all of this _easier_ ―Zayn does that for him, too)

“Oi, give him room to breathe,” Tricia sighs from the kitchen archway, smiling, too.

She manages through the crowd. Something warm spreads over Zayn’s face when he finds her. They search each other over, quiet for a moment before Zayn drags her in. Their hug lasts for minutes and Liam just watches.

From her place tucked in Zayn’s arms, Tricia meets Liam’s eyes. And there’s this achy happiness there, like Liam’s familiar and welcome.

As if she wants him to know, silently, he’s as important as Zayn is in this moment.

Before Liam can let that sink in, fingers curl around his wrist and tug him away from the noise.

It’s Doniya. She corners him in a hallway, cupping his face between both hands. All he can see for seconds is her wide eyes and the bright colors of her kameez.

“How could you never tell me, Liam?”

Liam blinks at her. His nerves creep in, his heart thumping.

But Doniya’s mouth parts into a massive smile. “Oh, he’s so _happy_ now,” she adds. “You two make a brilliant couple. So lovely.”

“We make a brilliant couple,” Liam repeats, wrinkles setting into his forehead.

“Finally!” she giggles. “Oh, _bhai_.”

Before he can process it all, Doniya pulls him into a hug. Absently, he presses his smile to her shoulder, squeezing back. Waliyha finds them, joining the hug. Shariq scrambles up to him, too, tossing his small arms around Liam’s leg, clinging like he’s _missed_ Liam.

(Fondly, Liam remembers that birthday at Zayn’s house―a cold January; posing for photos with a giggly Shariq tucked into his arms. Feeling wonderful at how welcoming Zayn’s family has always been with him.)

It should all be so strange to him, shouldn’t it?

Being this in love with a family, not his own. But Liam feels warm here. As if he can’t help but feel like himself around all of Zayn’s family. Stupidly in love with the way they’ve always been a bit gone over Liam, too.

(Like even while he was away, Zayn made sure to bring up Liam around his family.)

 

|+|

 

The house is stuffed with members of Zayn’s family. They huddle in piles in every room, taking up as much space as possible. It’s all warm and beautiful here. The constant laughter, plates of food passed around, this mix of joy and fellowship that Liam’s never really been a part of unless he was with Zayn.

He’s sat on one of the couches, flanked by Zayn’s cousins. Zileh offers him leftover sheer khurma from breakfast while Tricia pulls out old scrapbooks filled with photos of Zayn as a baby. It’s the kind of embarrassing show Liam recognizes―his mum does the same.

Zayn’s far too busy bickering with Waliyha in the entryway to notice.

“You’re not allowed to date anyone, let alone think about marriage.”

Expectantly, Waliyha rolls her eyes. “I’m old enough now, bhaiya.”

“You’re _not_ ,” Zayn reprimands.

Waliyha snorts, shoving at Zayn’s shoulder. “He’s a wonderful bloke. You’ve met him―”

“I _interrogated_ him,” Zayn interrupts.

“―and we’ve known each other for ages,” Waliyha continues, ignoring Zayn’s deceptive glare. “Besides, it’s not like you haven’t done the same.”

At that, Zayn freezes. He goes absolutely pink all over. Liam ducks his head, smiling, pretending not to notice Zayn looking at him.

Then again, most of the room is turning their eyes on Liam now, so. He tries to sink fully into the worn cushions of the couch, his skin flushing hot and red.

“I’m allowed to fall in love, just like you. With me best friend, at that,” Waliyha says. “Those sorts of things happen, bhaiya, so piss off.”

Zayn groans, his family’s laughter mocking him. He slaps a hand over his eyes, shaking his head, helpless to the smile stretching over his lips.

Liam continues to study the photobooks of a much younger Zayn, avoiding how noisy his heart has suddenly gotten.

“Don’t trouble her, son,” Yaser says, appearing out of nowhere, patting Zayn’s shoulder in a tender way. “Can’t help the way we fall in love, now can we?”

Zayn chews his lip, looking down at his feet. Yaser’s laugh confirms everything Zayn can’t say. “It’s not such a terrible thing,” he continues, wriggling his way through all the people.

Carefully, he lowers himself down next to Liam. Sighing, he drops an arm around Liam’s shoulders, giving him the warmest grin Liam’s felt in ages.

“Now,” Yaser starts, stealing the book from Liam’s lap, “tell me all about your music, son. My boy has been going on and on about you for weeks. Why haven’t you mentioned a thing about this album of yours?”

It’s like second nature―Liam relaxes under Yaser’s heavy arm. He meets Yaser’s eyes and falls victim to his own smile. There’s so much in Yaser’s face that reminds Liam of Zayn, down to the wrinkles around his eyes.

Comfort, Liam thinks. It feels _easy_ , chatting away with Zayn’s dad. Losing himself when Yaser talks about his love for music. And his fondness for Zayn.

In the haze of conversation around them, Liam almost doesn’t hear when Yaser says, “You really make him happy. He’s _himself_ again. Hasn’t been since he left you lot.”

And that wraps itself around Liam like an old sweater. Like he’s been thinking the same thing lately.

(how he’s not just _Liam Payne, one of those One Direction lads_ ―more like, Liam Payne; that’s all)

(oh, and _Liam Payne, Zayn’s much better half_ ―but he hopes to keep that bit to himself until the media catches on)

As the evening carries on, Liam loses himself a bit. In that good, honest way. Making talk with Safaa and Daniaal. Helping Tricia and the aunts in the kitchen. Letting Shariq kip on his lap while the family watches old films. Having a cuppa green tea (Zayn’s mum makes the absolute _best tea_ , not that he’ll admit that to his own mum anytime soon) after desserts.

Maybe he watches Zayn from the corner of his eye, just to see if his heart lurches each time their eyes meet.

(It does. Every bloody time. _Christ_ , this is tragic.)

“I’ll have dinner ready for you next time you two stop in,” Tricia promises, leaning up to kiss Liam’s cheek. By the door, she’s shoving bags of leftovers into his hands.

“You don’t have to―”

“Quiet you,” Tricia fusses, giggling. She presses out the wrinkles in Liam’s shirt, like Zayn did.

Under the layers, Liam feels warm, goosebumps spreading to his arms.

When she shuffles away, Zayn comes up behind him. Without looking, Liam knows its him―by the sandalwood, by the way his hand automatically finds Liam’s hip.

Zayn’s hair is mussed from trading headlocks with Jawaad. His stubble scratches Liam’s cheek when their faces brush.

“Ready to go home?”

Liam yawns, nodding. Warrington is far enough that he can have a kip in the car. _If_ he can convince Zayn to drive, of course.

“Don’t forget your mum is coming by tomorrow,” Zayn reminds him. “Furniture shopping, yeah? The house is still quite empty.”

Liam rolls his eyes. He tries to contain his smile.

(They’ve just moved in. Together. It’s still a bit strange but very much _theirs_. That massive house in Warrington, the one Zayn bought and pleaded Liam to share with him.)

(Liam didn’t even need a second thought to decide.)

“It’s not like you’ll be much help,” Liam teases. “Probably nap away on the sofa while me mum drags me to Harrods and such.”

“Definitely,” Zayn confirms, smacking a kiss to Liam’s cheek.

Under Zayn’s lips, Liam’s cheek burns. He still hasn’t quite gotten over that feeling.

“I’ll mind Watson while you decorate,” Zayn promises. When Liam turns to face him, Zayn fastens their hands together. “I’m not quite as domestic as you, babe.”

Liam snorts, ignoring Zayn’s obvious charm. It’s never really had an effect on Liam.

(no, it’s Zayn’s love for nerdy things and his quiet nature and how his tongue always presses against his teeth when he’s genuinely happy―like now―that’s made Liam a bit helpless for him over the years)

“You’re driving,” Liam sighs.

Zayn scoffs incredulously but it doesn’t last. Taking in Liam’s heavy eyes, his pliant smile, Zayn doesn’t put up much of a fight. He agrees, nodding, pulling Liam towards the door.

Liam manages to keep close, pressing his nose to the side of Zayn’s neck as they walk. Their first few fingers curl around each other. They’re shameless about touching now, even as a few of Zayn’s relatives wolf-whistle from the doorway.

“Dinner with the lads next week, right?” Zayn asks.

The quiet night circles them. It’s lazy, a sweet atmosphere for a brilliant day drifting off.

Liam smiles against Zayn’s neck, nodding. “Tommo will probably be late.”

“Harry’s picking the place?”

“No,” Liam giggles. “We all agreed he’s not allowed. But he can pick out the wine. And Niall swears he’ll watch over Tommo’s drinking.”

“Which means they’ll both be hammered before second course,” Zayn sighs, his smile pressed to Liam’s temple.

“Exactly.”

“Looking forward to it,” Zayn mumbles. And his voice is sincere, like he’s not as anxious at the thought of just the five of them again as he was before.

As if he’s warmed to the idea.

(maybe Liam has a little bit to do with that, but he doesn’t want to have an _ego_ over it, okay?)

“Love you,” Liam whispers, not nearly like it’s an afterthought.

More like a reminder. Not that they’ve ever needed one.

Zayn laughs but he gives Liam’s hand a little squeeze. “Such a soppy twat,” he hums. But his head turns enough to press a kiss over Liam’s eyelid.

At the car, Zayn pulls open the door for Liam. Before he can climb in, Zayn rearranges him, pressing Liam to the side of the car.

Liam knows this part―it’s familiar and terrifyingly wonderful and this kiss is hardly accidental.

(It’s also nothing like Hong Kong, which Liam is entirely grateful for.)

Against Liam’s mouth, Zayn whispers, “You’re not still feeling left behind, are you?”

Zayn always does this―little check points to gauge where Liam’s head is at. To make sure he wants this. It’s more of a certainty for Zayn than it is for Liam, but he plays along. He gives Zayn whatever he needs.

Liam smiles. Slotting their mouths together, he answers like this―

A kiss, accidental or with well intention. A little thing they’ve done since they were seventeen.

Zayn responds with a content noise. Gently, his nerves are smoothed away. For extra reassurance, Liam slides a hand to the nape of Zayn’s neck, lazy circles rubbed into the skin and hair there.

Zayn counters by tracing the ABC’s over Liam’s spine, laughing into the kiss.

Even after Zayn relaxes, Liam refuses to pull his hand away.

Quite a few months ago, he swears going to see Zayn in London was one of the worst ideas he’s thought of.

If he’s being honest, not all of his ideas are _that_ terrible.

(Falling in love with Zayn Malik when he was seventeen and still not quite himself might’ve been one of the best bloody ideas his stupid little heart has ever made.)

 

|+|

 

_‘I just had a change of heart.’_

**END… ?**

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was definitely not my usual style of fic. Different is good, right? I hope you can feel the "When We Were Young" inspiration in it.
> 
> This fic is a little love note to all of you who hope for this kind of ending to our 1D story :)
> 
>  _Side Note:_ These past few months have been a bit up and down for me, especially with life and writing. Loads has changed! I have been privileged to be apart of a fandom that has inspired me, cuddled me, pulled me in so deep that I didn't know myself anymore. It's been one hell of a trip! I hope to keep writing here, but if not, I am thankful for all of my moments and all of my readers. And if this is the last fic I contribute, I am grateful (40+ fics later) for the support. It's rather fitting that I started my 1D fics with a ( _terrible_ ) canon fic and end up here with a canon fic I'm a little proud of.
> 
> I don't have a Tumblr currently so I will do my best to respond to any comments left on this fic. But in case I miss you, THANK YOU for the kudos, comments, hits, bookmarks... thanks for _everything_!
> 
> (I'm still around; don't call this 'the end' okay? xx)


End file.
